Schutzhaftbefehl
by Ruth Piwonka
Summary: Ever get fired from a job? What was your last day like? Mulder's was normal until the Hoover Building came under siege.
1. Chapter 1

"Schutzhaftbefehl"

Chapter One

X-Files Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

January 4th, 2001, 8:30 p.m.

Mulder opened the top left handed drawer and just like Scully had said, there were his framed pictures. A 5x7 of him and his sister Samantha was the first one he pulled out, followed by a medium close up of his father and mother on their wedding day. The photo of him and Samatha was one taken by his father in West Tisbury just the summer before she disappeared. Both of them were leaning carelessly against the tree trunk after just finishing up a game of tag, and Bill Mulder had just happened to have the camera waiting nearby. _It was one of the few things he actually did for his family_, Mulder mused. _On the family outings, he was the one that took the pictures--never Mom. Course, it all stopped three months later. I never did understand why they took her and not me._ _He always resented me afterwards--I thought all those years that he blamed me for her abduction--but perhaps his anger was not directed at me specifically. Maybe he was just plain angry, and I just thought that it was my fault because of it._

_He would have made a good photographer. _

Bill Mulder had two hobbies that Mulder knew about; one of them included drinking, and the other was amateur photography. As time dissipated, the drinking grew into the only hobby, and the pastime of Bill Mulder's snapshots slowly faded to black. The rest of his pursuits would be forever commemorated to the abyss of the unknown history of the Mulder clan. He had a dark room in the house, but he'd never let Mulder come anywhere near it. There was a red light bulb affixed to the wall just outside of it; that was how Mulder knew that his father was _not _to be disturbed. Bill rarely let anyone view his work, even his wife or children. There was a man once, Mulder remembered, that had come over and requested to see his photos.

It was the only time that he had gotten a small glimpse at his father's talent. He had hidden with Samantha behind the couch playing Cowboys and Indians. Well, the man wanted to buy all of the pictures for _National Geographic_. Most of them were close-ups of plants and the insects that interacted with them. He seemed fascinated with Bill Mulder's eye for detail and told him so, to which his father shrugged.

Mulder never knew what became of that deal, because at that moment, his mother had come to collect him and Samantha for bed. The common practice of families back then was to operate by the familiar cliche "children should be seen and not heard". However, Teena Mulder took it one step further: "children are neither to be seen or heard" by important guests. When they were both smaller, Teena used to walk them up the stairs and tuck them into bed. By the time he reached the manly age of seven, she usually shooed the both of them out of the living room when guests came over for coffee and dessert with just the waive of her hand without so much of a "Goodnight, my darlings" or even "Sweet dreams".

"Evening, Agent Mulder," Doggett's bass New York accent startled him from the doorway, and Mulder shook his head.

"Didn't you hear? It's just Mulder now," he returned softly and shut the drawer after setting the pictures into a box. "Kersh finally got his way."

"No, that's...that's odd. I was just stuck in a meeting with him that lasted for three hours. He was doing a complete evaluation on our department...among others. And uh, the detail must have slipped his mind. Or maybe, I interpreted his saying of "a few minute changes" too literally. I can't believe he did that."

"Believe it, Agent Doggett. Kersh isn't interested in investigating the truth. He's only interested in getting into the Director's chair--and to quote a former colleague of Scully's, "that's what it takes to get to the top". I'm only too happy to leave this office if that's what we've only become--a stepping stone."

"A stepping stone? Look, I don't know if you've noticed this, but the people that have been coming through and working in this office haven't stepped onto anything or anywhere else. Agent Scully's only going to be leaving because of her maternal affairs, and me, well...I'm staying on."

Mulder's eyebrows inclined as his partner's would.

"Yeah, that's right. I _was _offered another position--closer to the top--but I turned it down. Now that you're going, too, someone has to keep this department swimming, or else it'll drown."

"Someone once told me something like that. He said that sharks never stop swimming. If they do, they die." He climbed onto his chair and then began to remove the excessive number of pencils stuck in the ceiling. "You know, at first when I met you, Agent Doggett, I thought you were just here for the ride. But now I can't think of handing my baby over to anyone else."

"How'd those get up there anyway?" Doggett leaned against the doorway and glanced up at the yellow objects protruding from the drop ceiling.

"Oh, that's an X-File in itself," Mulder smirked and tossed a handful of them onto the bureau. "Next month marks the tenth anniversary," he sighed.

"Of what?"

"In February 1991, the X-Files Division was officially opened. I was thinking of having a party celebrating that in conjunction with Scully's birthday, but, I don't think it would go over too well, would you?"

"Not particularly, no. She'd probably expect to have some time alone with you, I'd guess. And the kid. When's the due date?"

"A week after the big day. Oh geeze. I'm gonna be turning the big 4-0 this year, too. People are always calling that one 'over the hill'. Well, I've attended parties for 'over the hill' 50 and 60 year olds, too. Which is it? Are they ever gonna make up their damn minds?"

"I guess it depends on the individual." Mulder hopped down from the desk and opened a few more drawers to make sure he had left nothing else personal behind. _I've got no pictures of myself and Scully. After all we've been through, I've got nothing physical of her to show for it. _

"Do you mind if I ask you what you're gonna do now? I mean, now that..." Doggett started.

"Now that I'm being fired from the FBI? I haven't really thought about it. You'd think that I would have...during all that time I was gone..." he chuckled. "I was once told that I could probably have a stellar career in radio broadcast."

If Doggett understood the joke, he was not laughing. Mulder shrugged and picked up the box. "I was wondering...if it'd be okay with you of course...if I could consult with you for the X-Files. You know, from time to time...cause...I'm certainly not an expert in this field. I've been learning a lot but, well...I'm not as smart as Agent Reyes or Agent Scully. I've got the instincts to be an investigator and a nose for trouble, but when it comes to grasping this stuff...I kind of step back and let the other person handle it if possible."

"I hope you're not planning on doing it from here," Mulder frowned.

"Why not?" Doggett took the box from him and set it down in what used to be Scully's chair.

"This office is under a careful watch, Agent Doggett. And you know why it's now back under the knife, so to speak." The New Yorker agreed; approximately three months ago, AD Skinner had come through the X-Files office and emptied the cabinets of every single conspiracy case there was to be found. The Consortium had threatened both his and Scully's life with the simple push of a button by Krycek's thumb. So now they were extremely careful about which cases were opened. Mulder had become worried slightly with the last one because they were investigating the black oil species, but all that came out of it was his dismissal.

Not that he was entirely thankful for it, but at least Scully's life was not hanging in the balance like he'd thought it would be. Even Skinner was angry with him for disobeying orders again--probably for the same reason he was afraid, too. But he just had to know if the species could be stopped from spreading from sea to shore.

"Okay, so...was that a yes? I mean, if you're worried about money, I think I could perhaps convince Kersh that uh...since he insisted upon overseeing the X-Files Division now...that I'll be needing to call in some extra help from time to time. Monica is thinking of asking for a transfer from New Orleans, but that probably won't happen any time soon," Doggett pressed and tapped the chair with his foot.

"Kersh is head of the X-Files now? What happened to Skinner?"

"He's still an AD, but uh...since Kersh got real chummy with the Director, he got to usurp the power away from Skinner. I'm not sure what he's doing now, but um...Kersh got the Director's blessing, that's for sure. He was gloating over that during the meeting--was wondering if he was trying to rub it in or just brag."

"In that case, now I'm _extremely _happy to not be working here. No offense intended, Agent Doggett. I know he's a friend of yours."

"Back in the day, yeah. Now that he's a Deputy Director, he's gotten all high and mighty. I think that he needs to be brought back down to earth...and kicked the hell off of that high horse of power he's tripping on." Mulder picked his belongings back up this time and strolled down the hallway, followed by Doggett. "You still didn't answer my question, Mulder."

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot. I-" before Mulder could mutter another word, a gunshot fired from the floor above them. Both agents went for their guns, but only Doggett came up with his; Mulder forgot that he had turned in his issued weapon along with his badge earlier in the day. It was a reflex now, and when his hand touched nothing but his belt loops, he grimaced. "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Doggett asked as they rushed towards a door marked 'emergency exit only' for the stairs.

"My gun. I turned it in today," Mulder grumbled and set down the cardboard box again. "Of all the days that I _don't_ take along my extra gun..."

"It's okay, Age...uh...Mulder. I'll go upstairs and see if I can sneak a peek at what's happening. Since you're unarmed, you'd better call the cops."

"I don't think it'd be wise idea to separate, especially since we have no idea of who or what we're dealing with. There could be several terrorists up there; we just don't know. Besides, I have my cell phone right here." He dug it out of his pocket and showed it to Doggett, who dismissed it.

Doggett opened the door, and they both went through it. "Stay behind me," he ordered.

"I know that!" Mulder hissed.

"Shh! If you're gonna be here, at least be quiet about it. In fact, you'd better stay behind me several feet if you're gonna make a phone call." The former FBI agent rolled his eyes and opened up the flip phone.

"Damn. Well, I don't think there's much of a chance of that happening. I've got no signal in here. Guess I'll have to go back down to the office..." he sighed and sneaked back down the steps.

Unfortunately, when he went for the receiver, there was no dial tone. "Shit. Could this day get any worse?" When another gunshot rang through the air, this time very much closer to the office, he began to regret his sarcasm. "Oh boy."

Mulder ducked behind the bureau as he heard footsteps. Frantically, his mind ran through the furniture and objects of the office, which he could easily use as weapons. It had been rearranged a bit since his abduction and return, but Scully was a creature of habit. His desk had become both of theirs and as a result, had definitely become quite more tidy. She did have a fountain pen in the center drawer--that could be messy, but it might have to do for a concealed weapon.

After he had it in his hands, the footsteps came into the room. Mulder prepared himself for inevitable; it sounded like two people to his trained ears, but he could be mistaken. It was too bad that she only had one really nice pen like that, he thought to himself as he shifted his weight onto his left leg, ready to pounce on them at any second. "No, Yo no quiero hacer eso!" a small voice pleaded. _(No, I don't want to do that!)_

Of all the languages that Mulder had learned in Oxford, sadly, Spanish was not one of them. But due to his exposure to the well rounded minds of the people at Taco Bell, he knew that the woman did not want something. And it probably had nothing to do with those excellent gorditas.

"Hagalo ahora! _(You will do it!)_" a voice Mulder could identify as anything but friendly shouted back at her from the hallway. It dawned on Mulder that it was probably a cleaning lady, since she was creeping in very slowly on him, and peeked behind the desk. He put a finger to his lips and motioned to her to be quiet.

"I can surprise him from here," he whispered.

"Losiento, el senor, yo no le entiendo _(I'm sorry, mister, I don't understand you)_," she told him loudly. That was enough of a giveaway for the terrorist to come into the room and push her aside.

"Get up!" he shouted, and Mulder obeyed. Their assailant brought up his gun, an ACP .50. The bullet was practically large enough to split a skull in half if fired at a close enough range. Mulder hoped that the man did not have this information at his fingertips, for one of them in particular, the index finger, was right on the trigger.

"Too bad you don't speak Spanish," the man sneered and signaled Mulder to put his hands up.

Mulder did and let the pen fall down to the floor. "That's funny. I was thinking the same thing just now."

"You," was all the intruder said and immediately flew off the handle. "Schwinehounde! _(Pig dog!) _Wo ist ihr gewehr? _(Where is your weapon?)_" Mulder was completely perplexed. First the man was speaking Spanish, then English, and now German? Who was this, a language professor from Georgetown or something? He didn't look like one.

"Beantworten sie mich! _(Answer me!)_" he yelled. Mulder directed his hands in an upward motion, and the criminal spun him around to frisk him.

"Who are you?"

"Ihr morder. _(Your death)._" At that moment, the woman broke out into a loud sob, and he directed his attention to her. "Wartenzeit draußen! _(Go wait outside!)_" Apparently, the cleaning lady did not comprehend German either, so he pointed to the door and repeated his order. "Schnell! _(Move it!)_"

This time, she understood and hurried out the door still crying.

"Where's Agent Doggett? My companion? The man you shot?" Mulder was assuming a lot, but he knew that it was very plausible.

"Schweigen sie! _(Shut up!)_"

"Hey, buddy, look, I don't speak Nazi," Mulder became frustrated. "You were just speaking to me in English a minute ago, why can't you use that instead?"

"Sehr gut. _(Very well, then). _Ich spreche etwas Englisch, _(I do speak some English)_" he replied but kept the gun focused on his target. "I hate the language, though." When he spoke a few minutes ago, he had been using a perfect American accent. But now, his words came out more slowly and were accompanied with a German inflection.

"What's going on? What do you want? Why're you here?"

"You Americans talk too much. I told you to shut up, and I meant it."

"Can I at least ask you why you're pointing a gun at me and not disarming the man you shot?" The terrorist smugly pulled Doggett's SIG Sauer out of his trench coat pocket just to prove to Mulder that he had done so and then tucked it away. "Where is he? Is he dead?"

"Sprechen sie nicht Englisch? _(Don't you speak English?) _I said that is enough from you, Granger."

"Granger? My name's Mulder."

"One more word out of you, Granger, and I shoot you. When I am this close, I do not miss. And the shot is usually fatal." He signaled Mulder to turn around with the gun, pocketed it, and searched him again. "Where are they?"

"Who? Where is who?"

"I will ask you once more in English. Where are they?"

"In a galaxy far, far away?" Mulder tried and that ended up infuriating his captor even more. In return for his wisecrack, he received a swift blow to the rear of his skull, and Mulder could now imagine what it would have been like inside his father's dark room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Schwarzes Kaffeeheuse, Saltzburg, Germany

March 27th, 1943, 2:17 p.m.

The waiter pointed to Wilhem Schultz's new supervisor, Chief Inspektor Karl Wielen, who was sitting at a table and perusing a magazine with a demitasse in hand.

Schultz flipped his overcoat's collar up and drew it closer to his body to muster all the warmth he could possibly get. True that the snow was all gone except from the mountains, but March was still a nasty and cold month in Germany. As soon as he joined Wielen at the outside table, the older man closed the magazine and extended a hand to Schultz. "I'm glad you could make it, Schultz. My brother has nothing but good things to say about your work."

Schultz nodded as he shook Wielen's hand once and peered at the publication. "I thought you did not deal with propaganda," he remarked.

"Saltzburg is a much smaller branch than Braslau, Schultz. Therefore, I am involved in many more aspects of our departments. Would you care for some coffee?"

"I would, actually. I am still a little cold. The car was late, and I had to stand on the platform for over half an hour." Wielen scowled and flagged down an attendant.

"Noch zwei, bitte," the ash blonde Inspektor commanded and held up two fingers. The waiter agreed and disappeared as swiftly as he had come. "They were late? What time did your train come in?"

"1330, punctual as usual."

"I apologize for that. Next time, the car will come five minutes early." As soon as the coffee arrived and the server departed, Schultz removed his leather gloves. The calescent beverage was all too welcoming to his chapped lips, and he inhaled the rich scent before consuming some.

"I must ask if my transfer here will become permanent, Herr Wielen. There are affairs that I have left unsettled back home, and I would ask for some time to do so should that be the case."

"You have shown your dedication to your country by coming here out of blind faith. If you stay here in Saltzburg, it is purely by your own decision...after you complete this mission. Max only suggested you to me because I need someone who's extremely shrewd and expeditious for this job. I've yet to become acquainted with why you are nicknamed "Der Panter"."

At the mention of his alias, Schultz set his cup down and made an aphoristic snicker through his nose. "What is it that you need of me, Herr Wielen?"

"Do you know who Fritz Kolbe is?"

"∫a. Minister of Foreign Defense."

"There has been some...suspicion about his loyalties recently. These are of course, perhaps rumors...but then again, perhaps not. An informant in Casablanca has told us this, and though it's not been proven yet, he might have been involved in releasing information about our troops to the Enemy."

"That's why I was transferred to internal security," Schultz nodded and placed his hands over the steamy beverage for warmth.

"∫a. There is a man a few tables over to your left with brown hair and hazel eyes in a black overcoat and hat. Do you see him?" Schultz's eyes moved in that direction and glanced peripherally at his target, who was alone reading a newspaper.

"I do. Who is he?"

"Your objective. He's an American."

"Hah. I've heard rumors from Max; he wasn't kidding about your department's paranoia. How do you know he's-" Schultz's head turned towards the man, who had just pulled out a cigarette, and cupped the fire underneath his hands as he lit it. Moments later, he was successful. "I stand corrected, mein Herr."

"His name is Donald Granger. His papers say that he has been here since 1942, and that he's a reporter for a newspaper in the States on assignment. He's researching, of course, but I have doubts that it's for the public media."

"What specific time did he get here in 1942?"

"January," Wielen smirked. "He must be fairly intelligent, though...he managed to slip under our border searches numerous times. We think he was running supplies out to the French through Belgium, but, we've never been too sure. He's very good, and also very deadly, which is why we have so little information about him."

"And he's not doing that anymore? You think he's involved with Kolbe somehow?"

"He's been seen "interviewing" the man in public areas around here." Wielen retrieved a silver plated case that was beside his coffee cup and offered Schultz one, who denied. He shrugged as he lit the cigarette. "Thought you were cold, Schultz."

"The coffee seems to be working...and I don't smoke. They say it is bad for you."

"Ach...scheilße. _(Ah, bullshit._) Doktoren kennen nichts, _(Doctors don't know anything) _" Wielen dismissed his underling and brought the ashtray closer to his hand. Schultz stroked his mahogany eyes that were threatening to close soon if he did not receive some sleep and filled himself with another dose of caffeine. "Nothing could be farther from the truth. We don't know who this man truly is or why he is truly in Saltzburg. We also are suspecting the Foreign Minister of treason but to be sure of it before we accuse him of such a thing."

"Yes, it could cause us trouble...especially with the Austrians."

"How do you think he sends his information?"

"A messenger, of course. If this Granger, you say, is really that smart and met with Kolbe in the public, they would have talked about nothing but Kolbe's official affairs. Did anyone hear any of the conversations?"

"Nicht, nein, which is why we need you, Schultz. An apartment has been set up for you--and the car will take you there when you are ready." Wielen inhaled from his cigarette again and considerately blew his smoke away from Schultz.

"Has a story been also established for me?"

"Ach, no. Max told me that you were resourceful. All you needed was a place to stay, some transportation, and your assignment. Is that correct?"

"Yes on the apartment. No on the car, danke. I'd prefer to walk over there. Do we know which newspaper Granger 'corresponds' with?"

"It is said _The Cleveland Press_. That information comes from our telegraph office."

"When was the last time he sent something to the States?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the office could inform you."

"Nein, I'd like to keep away from them if possible. But, if I could look at some of his old sent messages, I might be able to anticipate his next move. And possibly Kolbe's, too."

"Can you read English?"

"Was?"

"Can you read English? I know you can speak it, but...-"

"I have been...learning some," Schultz's eyes dropped down to the cup in front of him, and he finished off the remainder of the beverage.

"They are written in English. And in code. Lots of American idioms and expressions are used that we cannot translate for sense into our language. I told you he was good." Wielen took one last drag of his cigarette and extinguished it.

"In that case, he is probably consulting mitt the local paper, ∫a?" His superior nodded, and Schultz donned his gloves again. "Amongst the few belongings I brought, I managed to take my camera mitt me."

The Inspektor laughed softly, for he understood Schultz's plan and signaled to the server for the bill. "Will you still be needing those telegrams?"

"Not necessary, mein Herr. Danke for the kaffee."

"Bittescheine, and good wishes to you. Promise to keep in touch mitt us."

"You have my word, Wielen." Schultz made no move to salute his employer; instead, he simply shook his hand and departed.

Outside the Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.

January 4th, 2001, 10:39 p.m.

"Let me through, please. I need to see Lieutenant Carson Raines," Skinner raised his voice and kept his identification out in his right hand as he elbowed his way through the throng of media, onlookers, and police. One officer's thumb guided the Assistant Director to an African American six two male in his late forties. Carson had just been giving patient orders on his cell phone, and as he was approached by Skinner, he lit a cigar.

"Ah, so you're Walter Skinner, huh? You're the first of what will probably the biggest feds' convention ever known to D.C. in five years," the lieutenant puffed on his cigar as he spoke.

"I've been told that two of my agents...well, one of them still is..." Skinner hesitated as he thought of Mulder but continued on. "That they were in the building earlier this evening. Do you know what the present situation is?"

"I do, and I'll gladly inform you of all of what I know, provided one thing." Raines flipped his lighter shut and held the cigar away from his mouth for a moment.

"And that is?" _As if I had no idea already,_ Skinner thought.

"We got the reins for this situation well in hand, Skinner. I don't need any extra help. You're here for moral support and background information...nothing more. You know these men and how they can handle themselves."

"Yes, that's true, and I understand. But there's someone I'd like to call who completely knows how one of them thinks. She won't interfere."

"Whatever, as long as I have your promise. All right, here's how it happened. At 8:28 p.m., the suspect probably entered the building, maybe a little sooner. We're not sure quite yet. However, we do know that security for the evening has been immobilized. The silent alarm was tripped three minutes later. We got here half an hour ago and have been setting up shop ever since then."

That was all Skinner needed for the moment. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. "Scully," came an exhausted voice from the other half.

"This is Skinner. I need you to come down to the office right away."

"Okay. What's wrong, sir?"

"What's wrong? Have you turned on your TV lately?"

"No, sir, I was...just reading," she yawned, and he heard first the rustling of sheets. Next came the turning of a doorknob, and then finally, the click of a remote. "Oh my God. Skinner, is that you?"

"I'm still here, Scully, I didn't go anywhere." Then he realized that she was looking at him from a camera's lens, and he whipped himself around to face the patrol car. "It's not a good set of circumstances, Scully. There were shots fired; security's been non-responsive to the police. We just don't know much right now, and I think that if we can make contact with them inside-"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," was all she said, and Skinner disconnected his side of the call.

"Bingo, we got 'em," Raines said triumphantly with a mouthful of cigar. "Who'd you call?"

"Another one of my agents, like I said. What do you mean? Sniper shot?" The assistant director became hopeful; perhaps this wouldn't be a nasty state of affairs for Mulder and Scully for once. Time after time when they were involved in a kidnapping, it did not always end well for everyone. In fact, someone usually died.

"Ah, we're not _that _lucky, Skinner. But we have an approximate idea of what we're dealing with and possibly where they are. I'll be receiving a printout of my roof team's digital binoculars in just a minute."

"Well, what're they describing to you anyhow?"

"Hmm...three white males and two Latino females."

"What about medical conditions? Are any of them wounded?"

"Don't know. But I imagine the picture will tell me about everything we want to know...well...maybe most of the blanks," Raines sucked some more on his cigar and ran it over to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. He opened the squad car driver's side and logged onto the laptop's network. "Ahh...crap. Couldn't they have made this into a lower resolution? It's taking forever to download."

"So our suspect's obviously armed and dangerous. It's most likely that he's killed, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but he coulda just tied up all the guards. We don't know if there's more of them either. I mean, just because my guys spotted five people in one room doesn't mean that those three men couldn't be the bad guys, or maybe there's an army of 'em. But since I'm not the type of a man to discriminate, maybe the women are the perpetrators. Yeah...they want equal rights and all that shit nowadays."

Skinner at that moment was going to make a further comment, but as he noticed Scully storming her way throughout the crowd and heading right for him, he thought better of it. "Okay, I've got it. Now lemme just print out the photo." Raines swung his head around to make eye contact with Skinner but instead saw both FBI supervisor and special agent. "Is this the woman you were talking about earlier?"

Before Scully had an opportunity to give him a tongue lashing, Skinner civilly rebuked the lieutenant. "Yes, this is Special Agent Dana Scully. Scully, this is Lieutenant Carson Raines, of Washington P.D."

"Lieutenant," she acknowledged him and held out her hand in a blatant gesture, but he rudely ignored it. Instead, Raines removed the printout and handed it to her.

"Now who's who in that picture?" he inquired.

"The two women are part of the cleaning staff. Mulder's here, and that appears to be John," Skinner informed the officer as they gazed at the picture.

"Doggett's on the floor. He's probably been shot," Scully surmised.

"I don't know the third person. That's got to be our perpetrator."

"Too bad he's got his back to the camera. I'll call the boys and see if I can get them to take one of him turned around," Raines lamented and shifted around on the seat to pull out his cell phone. Skinner took that moment to step a few feet away with Scully.

"I called Agent Reyes. She should be here in about three hours," she told him and folded up the photograph to fit into the pocket of her suede jacket.

"Scully, she's not part of the X-Files, or even this office yet. Why'd you do that?"

"I need her help. We have no idea who this man is, and even if we get a decent picture of him, all the police are concerned about is getting their man. Of course they want to avoid fatalities or even injuries, but that's all. We need to know what his motivations are, and if we can possibly talk him out of harming anyone else..."

"You needed someone else to trust," Skinner agreed. "I understand."

"And I thought it would be best if we got the guys involved, to have a way to dig them out should they run into any trouble."

"Very good thinking, Scully. I'm surprised that you have even _this _much logic after a long day of work and at such a late hour," he raised his wrist up to his chest and glanced at his watch. "Surprised that the calvary's not here yet."

"You mean Deputy Director Kersh?"

"Among others. This could put the FBI into a very sensitive spot." Scully looked up from her feet and at the plethora of media that was shouting even louder than before for attention.

"Is anyone going to talk to them?" she motioned with her head toward the press.

"Hey, AD Skinner, Agent Scully. We just got another photograph of the suspect along with the victims," Raines called to them. "I ran it through our databases and got bumpkus. He's got to be from a foreign country or another state."

"Would you mind printing it out again, please?" Scully asked and cleared her throat. Raines tore off yet another piece of paper from his printer and gave it to Scully.

"In the meanwhile, I got our surveillance techs working on our audio problems. Unfortunately, right now, it looks like we'll only be able to listen to what's going on, and only from up there," Raines pointed to a skyscraper under a heavy amount of construction. Scaffoldings no less than thirty feet off of the ground surrounded the edifice and i-beams were the only supports on the roof. "Our audio tech used to tour with the circus as a rigger--seems to have no fear of heights whatsoever. Said he'd ziplined from three hundred feet in the air once from one building to another. What a nut." He twirled the cigar around his index and thumb back and forth as he puffed on it. "So if you're up to wanting to really know what's really going on, that's our only option right now." He motioned to the heavens. "Personally, I like the feeling of good, solid earth between my shoes."

"Why can't we have another receiver and transmitter set up down here?" Skinner wondered.

"Are you kidding? With this mess? Do you know how many wireless pieces of equipment are being operated out there right now? You got microphones, cell phones, speakers no doubt of people protesting for God knows what reason, remotes, cameras, need I say more? Besides, the audio tech says that there'd be too much of a signal degradation even if he could get us reception down here. His equipment's not advanced enough."

"I can take care of that," Skinner reached into his pocket.

"Wait a minute. Do you remember what our understanding was when you came up to me not half an hour ago here?" Raines stood and slammed the police car driver door shut. "Do I need to remind you?"

The Assistant Director just gave him an icy stare as he put the phone to the side of his head and trudged away for less background noise. "This is Assistant Director Skinner..."

"Is he deaf or just stupid?" the lieutenant questioned Scully.

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, to refuse the resources of the FBI is not a move of stupidity on the Assistant Director's behalf," she replied nonchalantly. "We're all on the same side, here."

"Well, if he can pull his strings and make it work down here, fine. Where's the rest of your parade? Where there're two federal agents, a crowd's sure to follow."

"The division I work for is one of the less popular ones. People are concerned for us, of course, but, from a distance, I'm sure."

"Sounds like a bullshit rain dance to me," Raines snickered through his mouth, and the smoke he exhaled came straight into her face. "Sorry. Skinner said that you know how those agents think, huh? So tell me, are they thinking their way outta this as quickly as possible?"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, is there something better that you have to do right now?"

"It was just an honest question; you don't need to bite my head off."

"Casey Hale's on his way from Quantico," Skinner announced, and he stepped back into the discussion. "Says he can solve both the problems of our audio _and _video feeds. Apparently, he used to tour as an audio engineer, so he's used to dealing with sticky situations and thinking quickly on his feet. But the bad news is that his supervisor won't let him go until 11:30. So that means we've got thirty to forty-five minutes of doing nothing but hoping and waiting."

"Well, you do have an option. It's just thirty plus feet right now. Anybody feeling adventurous?" Raines lifted his palm up in the direction of the scaffolding.

"I'll-" before Scully was able to finish her sentence, Skinner interrupted her.

"You'll do no such thing, Agent Scully. I don't want you to put yourself under any kind of strain or risk...especially for that baby."

"I want to be able to hear him." The Assistant Director grimaced; he knew what it had meant to Scully now that Mulder was back. And what it would do to her if he were taken from her again. He absolutely was mortified of heights.

"I'll go up there," Skinner said softly and swallowed a lump of what only could be described as being the size of a baseball down his esophagus. "But you wait down here for Agents Hale and Reyes. Let me know when that happens."

"Sir?" Scully called to Skinner as he began to trudge off to the neighboring complex. He spun around and lifted his head. "Thank you."

"Don't do that until they're out of there...alive."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Inside Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

January 4th, 2000, 11:13 p.m.

"He's still losing blood. I need to get him to a hospital," Mulder said to his captor and turned halfway around to make eye contact. He eyed the tie that was hugging Doggett's arm tightly. And he was beginning to go into shock. Mulder knelt down, stripped himself of his leather jacket, and covered the ex-cop with it.

The man just stared at him with complete hatred and pointed with Doggett's gun at the two cleaning ladies, who had been chattering away in their own language. "Recuerde, yo le puedo entender los dos, _(Remember, I can understand you two_)" he shook a finger at them, and they immediately stopped.

"Look, would you mind telling me what you want from us? It's obvious that you're not angry with them. Why not let them go?" Mulder patronized him.

"So that your snipers can get in a clean shot? Hah. No way. I know how you feds deal with hostage scenarios. No one shoots until the civilians are out of the way," he sneered back. "Besides, this glass is three inches thick. Even if the bullet should penetrate the window, it'll get stuck in the process."

"What's your name?"

"Why should that interest you? You just wanna get outta here so you can go home and either get drunk, watch that basketball game, or screw your missus. Am I right, buddy? You don't care about what happens to anyone else but yourself afterward. Selfish, conniving bastards. I trusted guys like you."

"Well, maybe I'm not like anybody you've met before. Talk to me. Can I call you Tyler? That's a nice name."

"I'll let you call me Arnold Schwartzenegger if you bend over and kiss my feet. Now shut up."

"You feel upset because you feel misunderstood," Mulder started.

"G-man, you don't know the goddamned half of it," the assailant leered and went towards one of the women.

"Wait! If you want somebody to take your frustrations out on, don't do it to them."

"You got a better idea, huh? Wanna be their savior, eh? Offer yourself up on the altar of humility? Well, you got it wrong. You aren't worth Jack shit to me!" Mulder suddenly remembered the last time someone shouted that close to his face; it had been coming from Duane Berry. It was also the last time he had felt truly terrified that he would never see Scully again without a wooden overcoat. "Wo sind die papieren? _(Where are the papers?)_"

_Uh no. Not again with the German._

The man swiveled the gun away from the Hispanic cleaning staff and slapped Mulder across the face with his left hand. "Wo sind die papieren?" he yelled again.

"What papers?"

"Die briefen! _(The letters!) _Wo haben sie die briefen versteckt _(Where did you hide the letters)_?"

"I'm not wearing any. Boxers," the former FBI shrugged and winced as the man's hand came up to smack him once more.

"Ach...Gott verdammen es. Genug! _(Enough!) _Ich weiß, dass Sie Deutsch sprechen. _(I know very well that you can speak German.) _Erzahlen sie mir, wo sind die briefen jetzt. _(You will now tell me where you have hidden the letters)._"

"Could you go back to Spanish? I think I could understand you a little better."

"Wo ist dis? _(What are you talking about?) _Sie sind ein narr. _(You are a fool.) _Ich spreche Spanisch nicht, und ich werde nie. _(I don't speak Spanish, and I never will.) _Aber es ist nicht, als von einer Sprache anekelnd, als Englisch. _(But at least it's not as disgusting of a language as English is.)_"

_In some strange way, I think he just insulted me_, Mulder thought.

"I just heard you speaking it a minute ago. Are you telling me that you don't know one word of it?" The janitors broke out of their terrified postures to glance up at the man that supposedly had just told them to be careful in their native tongue not two minutes ago. Now he admitted that he did not know the language.

"Bromea usted _(Are you joking)_?" one of them inquired, and the gun came back to their faces.

"Schweigen sie! _(Shut up)_"

"Es usted un hombre disetento? _(Are you a different man)_" He seized his head with his hands and sank down to the floor. Mulder saw the opportunity and pointed to the two women.

"Go find help!" he commanded, and they scurried away as mice would from a predator. He wondered if they actually comprehended what he had said, but they probably knew from enough TV to know what to do. "Doggett, are you with me? You've got to protect them."

"I'm...I'm freezing..." the ex-cop stammered.

"I know, but the women are on their own now. You go, and I'll distract him."

"H...how?"

"Leave that to me."

"If I weren't in such pain right now with this one, I'd pop you one," Doggett mumbled and headed for the door. Unfortunately, right at that time, their abductor decided to break out of his psychological seizure and fired his weapon. Thankfully, the shot did not directly nail Doggett; instead, the bullet only grazed the side of his thigh. The man's jitters had curved his accuracy, but that was not enough to stop Doggett from grabbing his leg and hobbling after the women.

Mulder snagged hold of the terrorist and tried to use his momentum to tackle him onto the ground, but all he received was an elbow crashing into the eye for his efforts. He staggered backwards but still managed to keep his grip onto the legs. "Stop," he coughed as the criminal kicked him in the ribs. "You're only wasting bullets on them. You came for a purpose, didn't you?"

The man considered Mulder's plea but still kept his gun fixed upon Doggett, who had just thrown himself across the elevator's opened doors for protection. "You. Get back in here," he ordered in the thick Germanic accent. Doggett waited until the doors had closed and limped at a moderate pace back to the office.

"Steigen sie von mir ab, schwinehounde, _(Let go of me, you pig dog)_" he told Mulder and struck him again. This time, Mulder let go once Doggett was across the threshold. But their kidnapper decided to turn the tables on the ex-FBI agent and snatched him by the t-shirt. He brought Mulder so close that when he spoke, he spat into his face. "Genug von irhen spielen. _(Enough of your games) _Wo sind die briefen? _(Where are the letters)_"

"It's obvious that he doesn't know what you're talking about," Doggett huffed and covered himself again with Mulder's jacket. "And you're annoying the hell out of me. So why don't you do your business with us right here and now?"

"It _is_ my business to retrieve the letters that dis man occupies and is lying about."

"Okay, well, you could've done that at his apartment. Why'd you come here?"

"Wer ist dieser man? _(Who is this man) _Ich habe gedacht, dass sie nur allein gearbeitet haben, Granger, _(I thought that you only work alone)_" he rasped into Mulder's face once more.

"I think you've mistaken him for somebody else. His name's not Granger, it's Mulder," Doggett answered him and winced as he accidentally moved onto his gash.

"That's what he keeps telling me."

"He's right," Mulder rasped. "I don't have any letters, except for the bills that I don't pay. And those are at home. I don't even work here anymore."

"Was ist dieser ort? Wo sind wir?"

"English, _please_," Mulder begged.

"What is this place? Where are we?" the captor queried.

"I don't believe it. This guy bumped off our security, knocked out our telephones, and now claims he doesn't know where he is!" Doggett screamed. "I suppose you don't know whose weapon you're carrying either?"

"No, I know it is yours. I took it from you. But it does not look like a standard American automatic weapon," he studied the gun.

"It's German," Mulder responded. Before he knew it, he was being dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and right onto a very sore spot.

"German? You would steal our own weapons right from underneath our noses, you schwine!"

"Not exactly; they're standard FBI issue," Doggett replied.

"Wer ist die FBI? _(What is the FBI)_" the man inquired and repeated the same acronym that Doggett had spelled out. "Ach...bedenken sie nie. _(Oh never mind) _Filthy Americans."

"Well if you don't like us so much, then you can just get out of our country," Mulder snarled.

"So I am in America," he mumbled and grinned to himself. "Then we must have taken it over. Ha, I was wrong to doubt his power."

Doggett leaned over to Mulder. "I'm gonna start callin' him a freakin' Nazi bitch to his face in about five seconds if we don't learn his name." Mulder already guessed who would receive the brunt of the punishment if Doggett resorted to his insult and tried a different approach.

"Okay, if I'm Granger to you, whom does that make you to me?" he asked.

"Never heard of him," the man responded back without a hint of German. "But if you're desperate to know who I am, mister g-man, I'll tell you. The name's Craig. Craig Barnes."

"Doesn't sound very German to me," Doggett muttered.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Barnes shouted.

"Craig? Craig, let's calm down," Mulder made eye contact with him, and although there was much fear inside of himself, he knew that he had at least with Doggett's help, freed the civilians. Scully would be outside soon. _Scully would be worrying about me. I wish I could let her know that we're okay._

"Now Craig, what can we do to help you? How can we work this out?" he continued and kept his voice steady. "We don't want you to get hurt. We want to understand you."

"You sure _did_ help me, mister g-man. I'm already here to work everything out."

"What did I do to wrong you?" Mulder frantically shuffled through his memories and tried to recognize Barnes' face from his past but was coming up with nothing. Unfortunately, before Barnes could answer, Mulder's cell phone went off. Barnes stepped in between the two other men, seized the jacket, and removed it.

"Mulder, is that you?" Scully's voice came from the speaker.

The man suddenly held the phone away from himself and began to look over it incredulously. "Was ist dieses ding? _(What is this thing)_" he interrogated Mulder.

"Mulder, are you there?" Scully continued.

"You'll get what you're looking for if you talk to her. She's right there."

"I don't see any woman," Barnes jeered and his eyes plunged into Mulder's.

"But she's on the phone. Tell her what you want."

"Dies? _(This) _Ist dies ein telefon? _(This is a telephone) _Sie mussen scherzen. _(You must be kidding)_" Barnes shoved the device into Mulder's face and shook it back and forth.

Scully overheard the German and although she was utterly confused, she decided to speak with the suspect. "Nein scherzt nicht er. _(No, he's not) _Ist dies ein telefon, und mit wen spreche ich? _(This is a telephone, and to whom am I speaking)_"

When Barnes recognized her voice, he immediately flew into a tantrum. "Es scheint, als wenn ihre plane, verrater nicht gearbeitet haben. _(Looks like things didn't go as you planned, traitor. _Ich bin noch lebend! _(I am still alive)_" With that, he threw the cell phone onto the nearby desk and headed for Mulder.

Outside the Hoover Building, 11:36 p.m.

_That was a very strange conversation_, Scully told herself. Not only had she just been screamed at in German but also told that she was a traitor to her country. And second of all, why in the hell wouldn't this guy know what a cell phone was?

But there was a silver lining to every cloud. Barnes did not hang up; he left the line open, and now she could hear everything that happened in the office. Unfortunately, her phone was beeping the familiar 'call waiting' tone, and the screen told her that it was Skinner. Scully shuffled over to the squad car, opened the door, and reached over to the radio. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully. Can I speak with Assistant Director Walter Skinner, please?"

Seconds later, Skinner's baritone came through to her very clearly from the dashboard speakers. "Is there a reason why you didn't answer my call, Agent? Over."

"Yes, sir. The man, whoever he is, did not end the call. He's left the line open. So now I can hear them. Over."

"I called because I only heard half of that conversation. His half, to be more specific. What exactly was he talking about? Over."

"My German is a little rusty, I'll have to admit, sir, but from what I could make out, he accused me of being a traitor. And that my plans didn't work...whatever that meant. I don't even know anybody that can speak German! Over."

"Did you catch anything else? Over."

"He didn't know what a cell phone was. And um...that he was still alive. That's still not firing off any synapses, sir. Over."

"Hmm...well...see what you can find out about the man...said his name was Barnes. Craig Barnes. Oh, and Agent Hale will be here shortly. He just called me five minutes ago before you did Mulder's phone. Over."

"10/4, sir. Scully out." She kept the phone close to her ear and next traveled over to a pay phone about twenty feet away. Thankfully, it was in a luminous and well protected area. Scully patted down her pockets and withdrew two quarters.

"Lone Gunmen," Langly answered.

"Langly, it's me."

"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?"

"Turn off the freakin' tape machine."

"Why, Agent Scully, we _never _record any of our conversations with you."

"Oh, brother," she rolled her eyes. "Just turn it off now."

"Fine." She went silent until she heard the clicking sound of their ancient reel to reel and then continued. "It's off."

"Don't you guys ever go to bed?"

"One of us always is up...just in case we're needed. Come on, Agent Scully, what's the sitch, have you got a hot tip for us?"

"I only wish. I need your help...Mulder's in trouble."

"Uh-oh. What's he gotten himself into this time?"

"Actually, it wasn't his fault. An assailant...well...I suppose there could be more but I've yet to hear of them...broke into the Hoover building," Scully kept her hand cupped over the cell phone's receiver and cradled the landline between her shoulder and neck. This multi-tasking was giving her neck more trouble than ever before, so she switched the pay phone over to the other ear and tried to balance the two phones.

"If the cops are all there with the bureaucrats you're always pressed under, what's the deal? You probably can run him through any of their computers and get the 411 on him quicker than you can say "Mulder's porn collection". Not that I don't want to help you out, Agent Scully," Langly added.

"That's just it. He's not in their database. And you can guess how much access I have to the Internet and FBI's files right now _outside_ the Hoover building," she was on the borderline of snapping at him.

"Okay, then, I don't imagine that you have a fax machine anywhere in the vicinity...so what's his name?"

"Craig Barnes."

"I'll run him through our channels to see what I can find."

"Good. Thank you. Oh, and Agent Reyes will be stopping by in a little while with his picture should you be needing it. You know, just in case that's an alias or something."As Scully made her way back to Lt. Raines' car, she noticed that the mobbing media had gotten noticeably closer, and now he was answering their questions. Ugh, that was the last thing she needed right now...were thirty microphones being shoved into her face. She rolled her neck from side to side and when she heard popping noises, she grew rather irritated with her aging body.

"Wanna get rid of that nasty crick in your neck?" a younger man with an FBI ID on a lanyard hanging round his neck questioned her. He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a small headset. "Go ahead. I got the audio all set up for you now."

"You're Agent Hale?" she wondered and he nodded. "Thank you." Scully finally press the 'end' button on her cell phone, slipped it away, and attached the earpiece to herself. After she had done that, she glanced at her watch and saw that the time only said '12:03 a.m.'. "Hey, how'd you do that so fast?"

"I had the whole device set up before I left and brought it with me assembled. What can I say? I had all my work done for the night, but my sup was just being a prick to your boss."

"I'm surprised that you didn't get a ticket on the way over here."

"Oh ah...I've got an IR node modulator. I'll never get any speeding tickets...from a radar gun's readout anyhow," he shrugged.

"But, the transmitter is...-"

"On top of the Hoover already." He noticed her jaw drop and shuffled his booted feet around the gravel. "I used the fire escapes, Agent Scully. There's no magic involved or anything."

"But what about video?"

"Ah...that'll take a little doing. The audio was the cinch. But don't you worry, you'll be able to see what's going on in there...oh...maybe in about fifteen minutes or so. Depends on my buddy. I borrowed him from the Sarah McLachlan concert load-out...production manager was a little pissed that I took him, but once I told him that it was a federal matter, what could he do but give me a nasty look?"

"That's right. Skinner said that you used to be an...audio engineer...was it?"

"Mmm...yeah. The Union pays good...the benefits in D.C. are lousy, though. So that's when I decided to get into the government work. Man oh man, do we have it good as feds," Hale chuckled and picked up his phone as it beeped twice. "This is Spiderman."

"Hey, Spidey. What kind of a hookup do you got comin' down to your end?" the voice replied.

"What kind of gear did you manage to finagle your way into? I got a shitload of TV vans from here to Hawaii hangin' out down here probably just bustin' out miles of digital triax."

"Well, I got a digital amp, a wave-form monitor, a VTR, and a basic three way switcher. But there ain't no way in hell that I'm doing that hang without proper fall arrest equipment, man."

"Just set it up on the roof, and I'll do it myself. It's gonna be a bitch to do the installation of the camera upside down, but...-"

Scully had been tuning them out and listening to the intercourse going on inside the building, but when she heard Hale say the last sentence, she flinched. "Did you just say upside down?" she asked him.

"I'll meet you up there, Surfer," he ended the radio discussion and handed it to her. "Would you mind keeping this stuff until I get back down here? I'd hate to drop my phone onto some poor reporter's head. Course, it'd be kind of funny at first, but then I'd hate to lose my phone to such a waste of space." Hale also emptied his pockets, which included a set of keys and a couple of things that looked like remotes. She was still stupefied as she took them and emitted a brief sigh. "Guess you figured out how I got that nickname, huh? Aw, don't worry yourself. I've done this lots of times."

"Well, just in case I forget to say this later...thanks."

Hale beamed proudly and began to stroll to the opposite side of the Hoover edifice. Skinner came through the squad car's radio again. "I thought I saw a couple of figures on the roof. That's Hale, right? Over."

"Yes, sir. He'll be installing the camera soon. How're you feeling up there? Over."

"Let's just say that I have a very good view of you and everyone down there. Maybe we can get an idea of whose office he's in once the camera's installed as well as see what the situation is for the police snipers, over."

"They're not honestly thinking of shooting at them, are they, sir? Over."

"Well, Agent, the two cleaning women, as you can probably hear, aren't there anymore. Thanks to Doggett and Mulder, they escaped and are probably in that sea of people you're practically in. So now that we don't have any civilians to worry about, they're going to try to incapacitate him, over."

"I don't like this, sir. Is this the Lieutenant's idea? Over."

"I believe it is a secondary plan, but the SWAT team leader's been quite reluctant to share any more information than a need to know basis with me. All things considered, they've been more than cooperative with us, over," Skinner reasoned.

"There's got to be a reason why that man's in the FBI building. He didn't come to kill Mulder and Doggett, that's for sure. Maybe his intentions, although his morals are a bit askew, are good, over."

"I understand, Agent, believe me, I do. Don't go jumping the gun yet, though. I'm just repeating some of what I hear from them talking to one another, over."

"How many of them are up there with you? Over." Scully inquired and shifted her weight so that some of her balance was proportioned onto the car's door.

"Three, and the leader makes four. Listen, Scully, my cell phone's ringing. I think it might be Kersh, so I gotta go. I'll call you back when I'm finished, over. Skinner out." She replaced the microphone back onto the dashboard, leaned forward, and used the door to support herself as she arose. Before she could take even one step towards the Lieutenant, who had just finished making his comments to the public, her cell phone chirped its paramount interruption.

"Scully," she answered.

"Hey, Scully, it's Langly. I've got some information for you about your inquiry."

"You don't have to be so oblique, Langly. I'm in a secure area."

"Hmm...well...if you say so. Craig Barnes is a dead man walking, so to speak. Did you hear about that car bombing that occurred out in Reno, Nevada? It was about three months ago."

"I don't recall it, no."

"Maybe these details'll refresh your memory. Craig Barnes practically got blown to smithereens in that car bombing. It was a miraculous survival, that's all I have to say. He _should_ have died. The article goes on to say that there's a couple of pieces of shrapnel stuck inside of his head. Doctors couldn't take them out because of the fact that they'd kill him instantly if they tried to dislodge them."

"That would explain why he's got a few screws loose," Scully deadpanned.

"In more ways than one, I guess. I also did some more checking. He's got all the usual legitimate government documents: driver's license, U.S. passport, birth certificate, and a hunting license. He's also got a license to carry a handgun, but I didn't find any official records of his purchasing one in the last five years."

"Well, go back farther."

"I would, Agent Scully, but that's just the thing. He's got no more records...at least not on our unofficial channels. Which means his history's probably on 'the official channels'," Langly commented.

"Did the authorities ever find who planted the car bomb?"

"Hmm...there was an investigation made...but it didn't last very long because he didn't die. So, no, nobody found out who did it."

"There's only one probable explanation for this, then. He's part of the WPP."

"Come again?"

"Witness protection program. So he's come back now to right the wrong that the FBI did to him."

"Kind of an ironic situation, isn't it? I mean, the whole point of the witness protection program is to protect the witness and the FBI. Yeah, I know everybody says that it's for the witness' own good, but the FBI gets something out of it, too. Funny how it failed to protect the witness and now also the FBI from danger, too."

"The system isn't flawed, Langly. It's the mechanisms in the system that keep it from functioning properly--those are the flaws."

"What?"

"There's a dirty agent somewhere within either the WPP or well...it's either got to be our fraud division or organized crime."

"Those don't seem like very good odds to me. Just how many people work in those divisions?"

"In the Washington Bureau, just over a hundred. Of course, some of our regional offices like New York, Cleveland, and Atlanta also work in these departments, too."

"What about Las Vegas?"

"It's just a regular field office," Scully sighed and rested her hand onto the squad vehicle's hood. She'd been standing up for quite a while and the extra weight of the child didn't make it any easier on her feet.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you there." Langly paused on the line, made a few clicks with his mouse, and the chair he was sitting in sqeaked. "So this Craig Barnes has got Mulder in the doghouse, huh?"

"And Agent Doggett, too. Langly, would you mind doing a little medical research, or should I ask Byers to do it?"

"He's off with a friend on a fishing trip."

"Fishing? Byers? Do I have the right number?"

"I never said what he was fishing for." _I will never call Mulder a paranoiac to his face or behind his back ever again should he get out of this._

"I see. Well, I guess you're stuck, and if it horrifies you, I apologize in advance."

"Horrifies me? Agent Scully, you are speaking to Lord Manhammer, three time game master of D & D. And I might add, I gave Mulder's butt a whipping too, every time he played with us! Nothing horrifies me!"

"Except perhaps the details of a post mortem examination." Scully's mouth twitched, and she almost wanted to smirk at him.

"You never told anyone, did you?" Langly's voice lost its confidence immediately. "Not even Mulder?"

"Not a soul. Now, I'd like to see how much you can uncover about the bits and pieces of shrapnel stuck inside of Barnes' brain. A hospital report would be the most accurate and helpful. There is a computer that is hooked up to a network here in the cop's car, it's just that I can't browse the web. If you would be so kind as to-"

"Yeah, I know. Washington's PD's on its own Intranet still. You know, NYPD and the LAPD have hooked up into Interpol now. They're the first police organizations in the world to do it. Sure, I'll email the reports to you. What's the roller's number?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The cop car's dispatch number."

"Oh, uh...42."

"42? Figures. All right, I'll get back to you as soon as I can with that data, Agent Scully. You can trust me. Oh, by the way, when should I be expecting this Agent Reyes character? We kept on hearing about her from Agent Doggett, but have not had the pleasure yet."

"From Doggett, huh? Um, she should be there after one o'clock or so. Depends how fast she drives."

"Does she know who we are?"

"Well, she knows how to find your place, if that's what you're asking." _You know precisely what he means, Dana Katherine Scully. Birds of a feather flock together._

"If she doesn't, she'll sure find out. I'm going to try to get some special permission and access for you, Langly," Scully responded.

"Access to what?" Langly questioned her.

"The witness protection program database. Maybe then we'll be able to find out about who Barnes really is. When Agent Reyes arrives, you'll be able to tap into the preliminary encryption, but unfortunately, we need the codes given by someone a little higher up in the ranks."

"How high? Skinner might be able to help you out there. And he's definitely do it for Mulder. And Doggett."

"I hope so...but there are even some rules that Skinner won't break. We have a very stringent protocol; wish I knew what it was, and I don't even work in that department." Scully moved backwards slightly and supported herself almost completely onto the outside of the squad car. "Ooh," she said and clutched her arm over her abdomen.

"Are you okay, Agent Scully?"

"I'm fine. The baby just...gave me a very strong kick."

"Have you found out the baby's gender yet?"

"No, Langly. I'm just going to let it occur the old fashioned way and find out just the same as anyone else used to."

"Oh, I just thought you'd broken down and done it without telling us. Or maybe Mulder casually asked you to so that he could get 'better odds'."

"Odds on what?"

"Uhh...oh nothing. Never mind. If I run into any trouble when Agent Reyes gets here, I'll be sure to give you a call." He hung up without a moment to lose afterward, leaving a very exasperated Scully in suspense. She sloughed off her petulant emotions, deciding that she would shelf them to be utilized later at a more appropriate time, and scrolled down her phone's contact list until she reached Skinner's number.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Vergnugeninsel, Saltzburg, Germany

March 28th, 1943, 9:42 p.m.

Schultz was rather pleased with himself for once. He prided himself upon his accomplishments and the fulfillment of small tasks from a day to day basis. If he could do all of them on his list for the day, he felt adequate. One of the things, he knew, that made a good civil servant was the drive to gather as much information as needed first before acting and resolving the situation. As much as he loved to climb up over those colossal, ivy camouflaged walls and sneak about the grounds, reconnaissance work in the city was also a thrill. You had to use your wits and be extremely careful about name dropping or your questions. To arouse suspicion no matter whom you were talking to could be deadly, which is why he _never_ spoke to any of his informants inside a building.

The walls _always _have ears and leaks, he reasoned, when prompted by his colleagues and associates. They always joked with him that he was neurotic and overtly cautious. _But now that the Americans have intelligence just like us, it is all the more reason to be careful. Never underestimate an enemy, or else you could get a leg bitten off. Watch out for that American as if he were an alligator. One minute, he looks even-tempered, and the next, he ambushes you because you were not prepared,_ he once told a trainee in his Sicherheitsdienst program. _Always be on edge and remember to keep your wits about you_.

Trainees and members of the Sicherheitsdienst that had less than two years' experience were forbidden from drinking, even while off duty. They were constantly monitored by primitive urine and breath tests. If an agent were even in question of consummation, he was suspended for a week without pay until the accusations were cleared. Schultz never touched alcohol himself; he felt it weakened the body as well as the mind, and he preferred to be alert at all times. As much as his associates joked about his abstinence from the drug, they also respected his decision. War was a difficult time, but it could not be conquered by the influence of too much to drink.

He had landed himself a job as a freelance photographer for the _Saltzburg Herald_, and he was fortunately given a tiny corner dark room next to Granger's office. As he processed his already used rolls of film, he listened to the activities that went on next door during the day. Granger was gone for the entire morning, and he had returned back from lunch with a woman. She seemed very pleasant and engaging; they talked idly for half an hour first over coffee and then onto the matter for which he had brought her back to work.

It occurred to Schultz that Granger was a womanizer; he knew precisely what a woman wanted to hear and could practically pull anything he wanted from her with little resistance. But this woman, Joy Kennedy, was her name, did not give in so easily. She returned some of his witty remarks with some sharp bites of her own to subtly close matters that were not open for discussion. The interview was very general; she apparently worked for a government official as a secretary and to her surprise, Granger asked her what she thought of the war. This information, he assured her, was strictly off of the record.

That too, she tried to dismiss, but he did eventually break her. She informed him that although she could not think of openly betraying the Third Reich, she believed that Austria should not belong to Germany. Nor should Hitler be trying to conquer the world like some sort of Alexander the Great. Germany's culture should stay in Germany and not be forced onto anyone else. Austria had its own separate heritage until now; she would prefer that it stay that way. Granger told her that she was talking like an American and asked her if she was.

Kennedy admitted that she had been born to an American father and an Austrian mother--during the Great War. She had been taught English, but German was her native language and what she favored over using English. She was proud of her country's culture and would one day like to go work in the capital, Vienna, if the war would be over and Austria be separated from Germany. Kennedy was also disgusted with the way that the Gestapo treated her countrymen "like stray dogs and cats". She asked him what his role was as a newspaper correspondent, to which he gave her the usual cover story.

Schultz knew there was more; and maybe, although some of the noise he was making prevented him from hearing all of the conversations, she was Fritz Kolbe's secretary. Perhaps she was the messenger between the two. Women could be excellent spies; sometimes even better than men at times, he thought.

He told himself that were the circumstances different, she was the kind of woman that he would find himself deeply attracted to. Yes, he used women, too, when he had to, but if he could avoid doing so, he did. They were fragile creatures, and no matter where their loyalties resided, Schultz detested dishonoring them. He was brought up by his own parents that a woman was to be treated as if she were a piece of glass. Extreme care went into her creation; and extreme care was needed when she was handled. _Admire her and keep her close; do not leave her to the outside elements to be ruined or soiled_, his father had told him once when he was a teenager.

As he stepped out of the dark room for some coffee, he almost ran into her. After succinct apologies were made on behalf of both parties, he got his first real chance to gaze at her--and nearly stopped breathing. Her hair was a phenomenally bright auburn and a pair of malleable slate eyes gave him the once over. Not only was she a passionate and intellectually sound woman but also what he heard the Americans describe once "a real knockout". Now he definitely would not be able to stop thinking about her, and he suddenly became smitten. He wanted to introduce himself, to invite her over for coffee, to discuss history, to let that intoxicating perfume drift directly into his nostrils as he...-

But Schultz sailed back into reality as she asked him for the purse back that she'd dropped. Thankfully, he had too much to plan for during the day to let her invade his thoughts again. As he thought of her now and stared at his club soda at his table, Schultz almost wished he had ordered a gin and tonic. It would only be drunk to get up the nerve to ask her for a dance, but he knew better. That's all would take--just one drink--and he could get nailed. Oh certainly, Granger had no idea of who Schultz was yet, but Schultz was determined to make his presence never known.

The two of them were out there on the floor dancing now to an American big band hit "Chattanooga Choo Choo" as done by the Glenn Miller Orchestra. It was a medium swing, and the dance floor was packed with couples gently swaying to the beat. Schultz was not adamantly against this American jazz music; he rather liked it, but understood why so many of his colleagues worked so hard to keep the youth from listening to it. Jazz itself had been around since the 1920s, but it only hit the German markets a few years ago and was a big smash. The music encouraged pleasure and a loose lifestyle. To entertain a carefree lifestyle was to invite trouble in. The Americans were always looking for trouble--why not let them keep their music, too?

Yet in his earlier days in the Gestapo, with Max Wielen as a captain and Schultz himself being only a sergeant, he found himself having to lead raids into clubs just like this one, demanding that all the music be stopped and the kids go home. Wielen had ordered the raids, and what could Schultz do except obey the orders? Some of the youths did rise up in protest, and his fellow officers went too far with their nightsticks. He did stop them sometimes, but other times, he was too late, and the officers had beaten the youths into comas. Schultz frowned upon such violence unless it was warranted--those were rare instances. He had later had words with the offending policemen afterwards, but they often fell upon deaf ears.

Schultz found himself gawking again at Kennedy; her hair was pinned up in the back with a butterfly clip and the jade dress on her took his breath away. The music changed into a much slower song--another American song named "Cheek to Cheek". And that's what Granger and Kennedy practically were doing. He had his arms so tight around her that she was forced to be so close, Schultz told himself.

She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. The interaction between the two of them was driving Schultz mad with jealousy; he couldn't take much more before he'd either throw the glass halfway across the room or try to cut in.

Thankfully, she whispered something in his ear and drew away from him. Granger made his way across the dance floor, and just as he was going to make his way into the booth adjacent to Schultz's, a waiter bumped into him and spilled the drinks all over Granger's white tuxedo. Granger gave the man a dirty look and as he was apologized to several times, he helped the waiter pick up the broken glass with an understanding smile. Their conversation was short, but Schultz had a feeling that Granger just charmed himself into a free bottle of champagne and anything else he wanted for the night.

By the time Kennedy came back, the same server was holding up a list, probably of house champagnes, and Granger selected one. "What was that all about, Donald?" she prodded.

"Granger. Please. I hate to sound so formal, but, I detest the name Donald. And I despise the nickname "Donnie", too, because it makes me sound like a Sicilian gangster," he corrected her. "How about you?"

"I don't suppose that there are too many female criminals out there named Joy, but you can call me whatever makes you feel the most comfortable, Granger," she answered.

"Good. I mean, it's only natural for two people that work together to feel comfortable, right?" When she didn't respond to his question, he looked own at his place setting and set the napkin into his lap. "What do you want out of life, Kennedy?"

"The same thing most people do--to settle down eventually, own a home, and have children. Maybe even grandchildren."

"Not everyone's like that. There are those of us that like to keep running about doing wild things," he grinned devilishly at her, and Schultz wished that he could see her expressions instead of his. He could move to a different table--no--he told himself to forget about her and focus on their plans.

"I could tell that about you. Fritz told me that you are a wanderer."

"What did he mean by that?" Granger chuckled.

"Well, for one thing, he never meets you at the same restaurant or cafe twice. You're always choosing a different place to meet. I keep waiting to hear him tell me that he's going to Istanbul for a rendezvous with you or something like that."

"I might just spice it up one day and ask him to come to the university library. But, enough about Fritz. He's not my date at the table tonight." Their wine steward came back with a freshly opened bottle of Moet resting in an ice bucket and poured the two flutes on the table to the brim of the champagne. "And are you sure about settling down? Something tells me that you want to get out of Saltzburg and visit other places. Am I right, Kennedy?"

"I did say the word 'eventually', didn't I? Where'd you get the champagne?"

"I'm something of an influential person in the newspaper world. I do quite a few favors for some people, and they return them to me as needed."

"And what kind of a situation did you help out with our poor waiter? Is there some kind of an unspoken vow between Americans that if one person does a favor for another, the latter must complete his end of the bargain, or else die a horrible, unnatural death?" Kennedy wondered and lost no time in bringing the beverage up to her lips.

"Well, first off, the server wasn't American. And secondly, no...the latter will not die a horrible, unnatural death. It's just that they know that they'll have no one attending their funeral. What kind of a world would it be if no one did any favors for anyone else?"

"A just one."

"What?" he chortled in disbelief and joined her drinking.

"If no one exchanged favors, there would be no impartiality. Think about it logically for a moment, Granger."

"I'm not the type of a person to sit down and analyze a situation--I just usually go with the moment. Makes life too boring," Granger shrugged and smiled again. "But you, something tells me that you're not too satisfied with just being a secretary."

"You're right about _that_," she confessed and ran her fingers around the ridges of the champagne glass. "And I don't like being thought of in the same way."

"You mean that people treat you like you're a simpleton?"

"Essentially, yes. I don't know what it's like in America, but in Germany, it's very difficult for a woman to receive a job outside of teaching or low administrative duties," Kennedy shook her head.

"To tell you the truth, it's not terribly far from that. But, there are more and more women working in journalism. I don't mean as secretaries to some editors or those big cheesed publishers, either. Some still use pseudonyms, but...at this point in history, I suppose that's as far as we're going to go."

"And what do you think?"

"Me? Well, every woman has a different place. Some women are better at being mothers and wives, some are very swell actresses, you know in the movies, and there are women just like you that do a pretty damn good job at work."

"Where do you see America in ten years from now?"

"That's a hard question to answer, Kennedy. No one can predict-"

"Go with the moment, then." Her retort was not meant to insult him, and as he eyed her carefully, he realized that it was meant for edification.

"I see the war over. I see our industries booming again, and thankfully not producing weapons. Maybe some huge changes in our entertainment and technological industries. I don't really want to say too much more."

"Why's that? Because you could be wrong?"

"I don't want to become too optimistic when there are so many variables in the equation."

"Well, yes, that's what happens with time. What kind of changes do you see in the entertainment world?"

"I went the World's Fair in '38. There was a fella who had this thing called a television on display there."

"Fritz was talking about one of those the other day. He says that Hitler wants to ban them from Germany because they would interfere with the Aryan purification process."

"I'm sure that's not the only reason why," Granger mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," Kennedy pried. Granger's eyes were elsewhere, and for a fleeting moment, Schultz almost thought that they made contact with his. He tried to bury his face into his hand, but he was caught off-guard by a man that sashed up to the microphone in front of the orchestra.

"Wilkommen, mein Herrs und Mesdames. For your dancing and listening pleasure this evening, the Verngnugenisel presents Frauline Rachel Kander," he announced and stepped away as a brunette with aquamarine eyes approached the front of the bandstand.

"Good evening," she recognized the audience after a large amount of applause.

"Granger," Kennedy startled both the man she was speaking to and Schultz. Only Schultz's head snapped back just slightly faster than Granger's.

"Oh...sorry, Kennedy." The orchestra played a short introduction to the piece "You Made Me Love You", and as soon as the woman opened her mouth to sing, he completely ignored her. "Hearing that makes me think of home. Since your father was American, did you know that that makes you an American citizen?"

Schultz nearly choked on the water he had just consumed.

"What're you trying to say?" The fingers that had been tracing the flute ceased their actions and flew over to unroll her serviette.

"I'm trying to give you some reassurance," Granger leaned forward and lowered his voice's pitch as well as volume.

"For what? Because I'm 'doing the right thing'? I'm following orders."

"As am I. Ultimately, you do have a choice."

"Sure, a choice. A choice of whether to work or not," she snapped bitterly, and as she moved to put the napkin into her lap, the silverware banged noisily into the plates.

"Was that how he explained it?"

"In a matter of speaking, yes. Unless I cooperate with you, that is."

"I can't tell your employer how to run his office, Kennedy. It was only a suggestion," he shrugged and his fingers nervously drummed on the tabletop.

"He certainly took it seriously."

"How much did he tell you?"

"Just what I am to do: meet with you and deliver them."

"I hear contempt in your voice."

"What would you do...if you were asked...to be part of a conspiracy to betray your own country?"

"First of all, Hitler...the Third Reich, Himmler, Goebbels...they're all corrupt. Secondly, as you put it earlier today, Austria should be separate of Germany. Doing this service could do it. Or did I misconstrue that?" Her anxiousness was increasing at a mile a minute, and he poured her some more champagne.

"You're using the conditional tense, there," Kennedy replied and lifted the glass to her lips. Half of it was gone before she timidly returned it to the table.

"Only because I knew that I'd be lying to you if I told you that big of a promise. Now I don't know you very well yet, but you probably wouldn't believe me, would you?"

"Good guess," she nodded.

"I can't tell you everything yet."

"Because you don't trust me or because it goes against _your _orders?"

"At this point, both. And though this situation may not be the pinnacle of this war, it is still a very delicate matter," Granger commented. "If you love Austria, you're doing the right thing."

"I've never done anything like this before. Can't Fritz just give them to you during one of your interviews and be done with it all?"

"Not according to Fritz. He wants the letters to get to Paris, and he's not sending you only to cower away and crawl into a hole. Kolbe must stay in Saltzburg for appearances; officials of the Third Reich would become very suspicious if the Minister of Foreign Defense 'went on holiday to occupied France'. He's got too high of a profile to be able to go anywhere and stay alive."

"Are you really a journalist?" she eyed him dubiously and pushed away her glass of champagne. Schultz could tell that she was now consuming less and less alcohol--_smart woman. She doesn't want to be taken advantage of mentally or physically._

"I have a hand in some other matters, but yes, I am."

"You're going to have to do better than that. I have to be able to trust you if I'm to be traveling with you to Paris. You said that trust is important, right, between two people that will be working together?"

She was using more of his words against him. Schultz laughed to himself inwardly. This woman was not to be trifled with--she _would_ indeed make an excellent agent of espionage. Too bad that he did not get to her first; he could have used her against this American agent.

"You're right, it is. I'll be as forthcoming with you as I can right now...-"

"What do you mean right now? If I'm supposed to entrust you with my life, wouldn't you expect that-"

"I meant right _now_, in this particular setting," Granger bit his lip impatiently. "I'll tell you more when the circumstances are more appropriate."

The song ended, and another began. Granger noticed that she seemed to be tensing up; the alcohol was probably not aiding him as much as he'd hoped. So he set his glass back down, stood, and offered her his hand. "Join me?"

"I'm warning you, if this is some kind of trick..."

"You weren't complaining half an hour ago about it. And on this dance floor, are you kidding? I don't think there's that much room for me to try anything."

She hesitated, but he jerked her up onto her feet and away from the table.

"If you doubt my intentions, there's always the good old one, two punch," he jibed and wiggled an eyebrow.

"How much of 'anything' are we talking about here?"

"I'll be the perfect gentleman. Scout's honor." Granger held up two fingers and smoothly interlaced his fingers with hers as they journeyed onto the dance floor once more. Schultz wasn't precisely sure of what the honor of a scout meant; he usually thought of his own profession when it came to scouts. That could be an equivocal phrase, as a matter of fact. There were some agents who pretended to be Americans and other members of the Allies, but he would definitely recognize his own work. He began the Sicherheitsdienst; there were now two branches of the organization. One was for counterintelligence and the other for reconnaissance. There were some touches he spun upon his 'counterintelligence actors and actresses', and as he learned more and more about American culture, he inserted them into the program. Schultz also behooved his agents to watch their enemies to learn, too. Experience was the best teacher, but sometimes it was best to watch the experiences of others, not just to go through them.

Kennedy and Granger were on the dance floor for another few songs before he had to excuse himself. Another man gladly took Kennedy's hand and filled in while Granger was gone. Schultz pretended to be interested in the singer while he kept his peripheral vision on Granger, who was composing a note on a slip of paper, and then he disappeared into the back of the nightclub.

Minutes later, Granger reappeared and took Kennedy into his arms once more for one last dance. They were so close together that Schultz thought that they had melded into one body--his jealousy could only go so far. He picked up the wooden stirrer from his water and bit down onto it so hard that it broke in his incisors. Thankfully, the song did not drag on for that much longer, and Granger escorted Kennedy to the front of the club to retrieve her coat.

Schultz arose and situated himself into the opposite seat so he could watch them; Kennedy departed after Granger slipped her the note he'd previously scribed and kissed her hand in one deft motion. He had not managed to break her yet, but Schultz could tell that Kennedy was now more a bit more pliable than before. There was an amount of trust built up between the two as well as sexual tension, and Schultz hoped that there was more physical attraction. When emotions were involved, it was a lot easier to divide two unlike minds with separate psychology.

Granger then returned to the floor and let his eyes scan over the crowd; thirty seconds later, he pinpointed his target and made his way over to a woman with shoulder length jet black hair and a strapless dress. She had been dancing with someone else, but the other man acquiesced far too easily to Granger. Schultz had had enough of being left on the outside; now it was time to camouflage himself and gather information. He sprang up from the table with a renewed energy, strolled up to the singer, who had just taken a break, and offered her his hand with few charming compliments on her talent.

He assured her as they began that she needn't break into conversation if she needed to save her voice for the night, and for a song or two, they danced without a word. Every time they came near Granger and this woman, he observed that Granger was also wrapped around her, too. How typical, he reasoned. But their embrace did not seem quite as sincere as his had been just with Kennedy. They were chattering on in whispers and in rapid English; he cursed himself silently. He should be more familiar with the language--he could speak it properly, of course, but Americans did not always utilize proper grammar. Slang terms often came into play and were his worst foes; even when Schultz learned them, he did not use the expressions.

Schultz had had enough "entertainment" for one night and walked outside. Although he had worn a black tuxedo for the evening, he had on an informal trench coat to cover it. The Gestapo agent rid his coat of the Nazi insignia pins from his lapel, pocketed them, and turned up the collar. The best way for him to blend into this new situation was to tolerate the cold as long as he could. He propped himself up against the adjacent building's wall and kept his head buried as much as possible into his knees whilst keeping surveillance on the people exiting the nightclub.

Roughly an hour later, Granger staggered out by himself. The raven haired woman was nowhere near him, and Schultz now wondered if Granger had just had a meeting with his superior on that dance floor.

_Drunk? Would he be that stupid? _Schultz pondered and watched him try to hail a taxi. A cab pulled up to the club only to be usurped by three people quicker than he, and Schultz hurried over to one that was half a block away. "Steigen sie vom auto aus," he commanded the driver and showed the man his identification. "Jetzt."

"Dis ist mein auto."

"Schutzhaft," Schultz seethed, and the cabbie gasped. He immediately did as he was ordered and was about to begin a German refrain of pleas, but he was silenced. "Schwige."

Schultz shifted gears and headed straight for Granger. He stumbled into the car and tapped him on the back. "8141 Georg," he slurred. Minutes later, Schultz arrived at the address and kept his eyes peeled in the rear view mirror as Granger tumbled out of the vehicle. "Thanks, buddy," Granger smiled, flung out an armful of marks, and made his way slowly but surely into the apartment edifice.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Outside the Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.

January 5th, 2001, 12:49 a.m.

"McClellan, pick three of your best men and prepare for an interior assault," Lieutenant Carson Raines spoke to the SWAT team's commander.Scully completed her intercourse with Reyes; her plane had just touched down onto a runway at Dulles. But as Scully strolled over to Raines, she had a feeling about the scenario he was preparing to release. And there was no way in Hell that she would let a stupid decision like an all out assault be the death of her partner.

"May I ask what your intentions are, Lieutenant?" she inquired of the police officer, who was on the tail end of his cigar. Raines took a few last puffs and threw it onto the ground, smashing the cigar with the tip of his foot.

"We're going in, that's what my intentions are."

"Forgive my intrusion, Lieutenant, but I don't think that that would be a wise idea. Have you heard anything he's said and done in there?"

"Go on ahead, McClellan, and get ready. On second thought, wait a second." The commander was about to walk away, but he halted in his tracks. Raines turned to Scully. "You're right. We need someone who knows the inside. Do you think your boss would be willing to give us a hand?"

"That isn't the reason why I'm objecting to your invasion. Would you like to listen?" She unhooked the earpiece from her lobe and held it up in her palm to Raines' face. His hands went up to his hips.

"Just how do you propose we get inside, then? Teleport?"

"I'm saying that going inside just might not be the best idea...yet. He's a desperate man."

"Good. Then he's got a weakness of poor judgment, and we'll be able to use it against him."

"Lieutenant, I understand you want to get this man off of the streets, but I'm also interested in my partners' welfare. Shouldn't you be interested in that as well?" Scully questioned him.

"We have their best interests in mind, believe me, Agent..."

"Scully."

"Agent Scully," he finished and nodded his gratitude. "Desk agent or field agent?"

"Field work, mostly. Do you doubt my experience, Raines?"

"Maybe not as an investigator. But we don't have time for an investigation here, Agent Scully. I have men that are more than willing to put their lives on the line for your partners, if you're so concerned by the way, and I don't need any federal obstructions keeping them from completing their duty. You're here to help me understand how those two men can help mine bring down this bastard. If I wanted tactical advice, I would be speaking to my captain on the phone right now. Are we clear?"

"One of them is incapacitated and both of them are unarmed. That's not to mention that Barnes may have an ulterior motive to killing them."

"What're you saying?"

"Think about it, Lieutenant. He broke into the FBI, took down the security, cut the phone lines, and kidnapped four people. Two of them escaped. And when an outside call was placed via cell phone, he made no demands whatsoever. What do you think he's got planned?"

"He could be wired," Raines acquiesced and dismissed the SWAT team leader. "We'll hold off until a visual can be maintained of the situation, and we'll decide from there whether a full assault would be appropriate."

"Or he could have the building wired, too, we just don't know."

"Then you tell me what we do know about this jackass. I've got plans and simulations coming from out the wazoo, and I'm tired of waiting. Now since you've got me thinking about a bomb, you tell me why he hasn't detonated it already."

"I believe Barnes is mentally unstable."

"No shit. Anybody that'd go up against the FBI and Washington PD was born under pistachio, the sign of the nut. Now exactly who and what is this guy? Did you find that out through your crystal ball?"

Scully was foaming at the mouth, and she inhaled sharply to calm herself down.

"We're still researching that information," was her response.

"Well listen, federal agent, I've got people to answer to as well as incapacitate that maniac. You've got half an hour to tell me why I shouldn't put my men in there or come up with a better idea. In the meanwhile, I'll bring in a member of the bomb squad down for reconnaissance. Either way, I'm sending somebody in."

Raines pulled out another cigar and stormed off. Scully banged her fist onto the police car's roof and opened the car door. Just as she sat in the passenger's seat, her cell phone trilled. "Scully."

"I just got word from the Director, Scully," Skinner's voice was despondent. "He told me that Barnes did not get to testify yet; therefore, his records are still sealed."

"He's denying us access? But...did you tell him our situation?"

"He apologizes profusely, Agent, but the Bureau's policy is that unless the victim in the Witness Protection Program has died or testified and given us permission to do so, we are _not_ to tamper with those records."

"Two of our own, sir!"

"One of our own, now, Scully," Skinner reminded her. "I care about Mulder as much as you, but remember, he's not in the Bureau anymore."

"It's all the more reason for us to be able to get into those files--call him back and tell him that a civilian is involved, sir."

"Need I remind you how late it is, Agent Scully? I woke up the Director of the FBI from a deep sleep once already..."

"Does he understand his responsibilities, then? What does Kersh have to say about all of this?"

"I spoke with him, and he said that if the Director gave his permission to do so, that he'd give his access codes to us. There's got to be another way, Agent Scully."

"We're running short of time...Raines is preparing a SWAT team to strike the Bureau in," she glanced at her watch, "twenty-five minutes. Argh. I need Mulder's brain."

"I have another idea, but it might be a little time consuming, I don't know. I think we might be dealing with two kidnappers." Scully re-inserted her earpiece.

"Two, sir? Why isn't he speaking with the accomplice?"

"I didn't say that they knew one another. Remember when he was speaking to you in German on the phone?"

"Yes, very well."

"I didn't recognize that voice as belonging to Barnes."

"Of course it was his, sir."

"I don't doubt it was coming from his mouth, Agent, but I don't think that the voice specifically belonged to Barnes. I could have Hale play them back to you if you need further proof."

"What's your point, sir?"

"We might be dealing with a Norman Bates. Or worse, the mother."

"You're saying that he might have dissociative identity disorder? That could warrant why one of the personalities can speak perfect Spanish and English, but yet the other can only speak fluent German and poor English. I'll check on his medical records," Scully nodded, swung her legs inside of the car, and shut the door.

"Yes, do that. We know that both parties inside of the suspect's head are hostile, but which one is the dominant one? Which is the one that might actually do something if the SWAT team gets in there? And another question, Agent. Is Reyes on the scene yet?"

"I asked her to go over to the Gunmen's headquarters, sir. Why?"

"There won't be a need for her to go there since we can't get into the WPP database." Scully rolled down the window and leaned her elbow onto it.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think our work with them has finished yet. We need a good mind out there while the both of us are stuck here. Well, I'm not stuck here, but I want to be here when-"

"I know what you mean, Agent. That's fine. Just keep me in the loop."

Inside the Hoover Building, 1:02 a.m.

"Damn, I wish I had Scully's brain right now," Mulder grumbled as he removed his belt from his jeans and wrapped it around Doggett's thigh. "Look, Doggett, I don't wanna do this because I'm afraid I'll hurt you, so you've got to...-"

"Uhnn..." was the only answer from the former New York cop as his head lolled to the side. Mulder only had basic first aid and only a fraction of Scully's medical knowledge, but he knew that he had to by all means keep Doggett awake. Most importantly, he had to try and get Doggett to the hospital, but from the last escape scenario they pulled, it would be quite useless. Barnes could shoot him too, and for all he knew, be deadly accurate.

The man was cowering on the floor behind a bureau rocking himself back and forth with his head in his hands. It sounded like he was muttering too, but Mulder couldn't decipher what language it was, and so he decided that it was best to leave Barnes alone. "I guess I'll do it. Maybe the pain will wake you up. But please, whenever you get your gun back, do not remember this and please do not shoot me for what I'm about to do."

Mulder fixed one arm upon Doggett's thigh and the buckle as he prepared to pull the loose belt taut. With one fluid motion, he tightened it, and Doggett's eyes flew open. He grunted in pain and shock--Mulder wasn't sure which, because Doggett went right back to his previous condition. "Come on, Doggett. You're supposed to be the tough one here. I tell ya, I'm not really sure what to make of this guy. I mean, back in med. school, we studied hundreds of dissociative identity disorder patients. But most of them were either women or children. A few here and there were men; and we called them..." he smacked his lips together, "we called them multiple personality disorders back then. Guess we got a little bit fancier and moved with the times, you know, like how secretaries are now called 'executive assistants' and all. Or garbage men are named 'sanitation engineers'. Sheesh. Next they'll be calling comedians 'joke coordinators'.

"But anyhow, these patients had experienced highly traumatic events, usually caused by ritualistic abuse...sometimes Satanic. Sometimes...not. I talked to a convict once. He was a white Caucasian male in his late thirties, and he had been raped. His mind split into four separate people: a seven year old girl from Vietnam, a twenty-two year old woman from Los Angeles that was a model, and a seventy-six year old man that was suffering from lung cancer and a denizen of Chicago, Illinois. You know who the dominant personality was? The seven year old. It's amazing and both terribly tragic as to how the human mind copes with such wrongdoings. Yet I can't help but wonder what's happened to this man. What pushed him over the edge?"

Doggett groaned, and Mulder took that as a response to move on.

"You know, I looked back as I was doing my dissertation, on my family. Did my own parents develop it, you know, as a result of my sister's abduction? It was just a brief consideration at the time, but I knew quickly soon after that it was not true. They changed, yes, but...--they withdrew into themselves instead. If they had only gone to family counseling...never mind. What happened was meant to be, and there's nothing I can do about it now. Oh, well, uh...ah yes, back to the case. Case? Matter at hand, I mean. Trying to dissect people's mental images of themselves is like trying to separate an egg yolk from the egg whites. One idea always seems to mix in with the others, and then you bounce right back to square one. I wish I could talk to Scully. I need to speak with her...now." Mulder peeked around the corner at Barnes and crawled over to the front of the desk.

His hand languidly slid across it and felt around for his cell phone, but the muzzle of a gun met his hand first. "I still don't understand what that thing is, but you're not to be touching it," Barnes declared whilst standing above Mulder's hand.

"All right, fine, can I have my hand back now?" Barnes removed the gun and traveled around to Mulder, who was still sitting on the floor.

"Did you leave them with her?"

"Who?"

"This is no time to play games, Granger, and if I have to use excessive force, I will resort to that method."

"I feel like I'm stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone," Mulder complained. "Now let me get this straight. Your name is not Craig Barnes."

"I don't know who that is. Stop wasting my time and tell me where those letters are hidden," Barnes barked.

"And you don't speak Spanish. So my question to you is...why were you yelling at my partner?"

"So that's what you Americans call her, huh? Well, it doesn't matter. Not now...not anymore. My English is not quite up to date, but wouldn't you call her type a 'dirty double crosser', ∫a?"

"Scully? No, never! Well, she did shoot me once," Mulder mumbled. "But may I ask who you are?"

"My name is Wilhem Schultz, but I gather that you already know very well everything else about me. And incidentally, this gun is much better than the Luger. It doesn't jam up nearly so much, and the ammunition clip is fairly larger. Who makes this?"

"A company called Sauer. I don't know anything else about you. May I call you Wilhem?"

"Commander Schultz will do." Suddenly, Mulder understood that the German was an agent of the Gestapo and was bewildered as to how Schultz's personality became ingrained into Barnes' mind. "Does this thing work as a radio as well?" He pointed to the cell phone with the gun's barrel and then back to Mulder.

"No, it's a telephone."

"Then where is the cable to the wall? I think you are playing games with me, Granger. Tell the truth, or I'll shoot you in the shoulder."

"I am telling the truth. That's how you were talking to the woman...her name is Scully."

"No...her name is Kennedy. For the last time, Granger...where are those letters?" Barnes' finger switched the two safeties off, and Mulder inhaled deeply.

"She's an FBI agent and my partner. Now please, tell me, why have you come to kill me?"

"I didn't come to kill you. But believe me, there have been many times when I had thought about it. Those are not my orders."

"Then what are they?"

"I am to secure the letters and intercept the traitor as well as you. Come, now, I hate having to travel around with a wounded prisoner," Barnes stated solemnly.

"Well, you've got me. Where do you want to go? There are probably no fewer than a hundred members of the Washington PD and the FBI outside. You'd have to demand transportation. So how about it?" Mulder suggested and pointed to the cell phone. "And what about Doggett? He needs hospitalization."

"I'll tell them he needs it if you tell me where the letters are."

"Commander Schultz, you're barking up the wrong tree. I tell you that I don't honestly know what you're talking about."

"What's your name?" Barnes' voice changed once more into his American accent and shocked Mulder to death. "I asked you what your name was."

"Mulder."

"You got a first name, Mulder?"

"Of course I do, but I don't care for it. Am I speaking to Craig now?"

"I don't see that guy talking too much," the criminal signaled over to Doggett, who appeared to still be barely conscious.

"Craig, what do you want here?"

"Case files. Evidence. Hard, solid evidence to take down the Perelli family."

"Why, Craig? What happened?"

"Take me down to the Organized Crime Section. You're going to be the agent to re-write the report."

"There might be a problem with that, uh, Craig, see...I'm not an FBI agent anymore. I was just here today to clean out my belongings from my desk when you kind of blew in through the front door."

"You can just reformat the document provided we find the computer file."

"I'm afraid I'm not a computer hacker, Mr. Barnes. I do want to help you, though. First of all, why do you want to attack the Perelli family?"

"'Cause justice isn't so blind as she appears to be."

"I need more information, please, Craig. Tell me more."

"You'll find it all in that agent's desk. They bought him off--dirty bastard."

"Who?"

Barnes shrugged and turned away.

"I'd really like to help you out, Craig, but I can't. As much as I hate injustice and infidelity, I lack the skills to be able to bring up your case files. But with your permission, I do know of some people that might be able to do so," Mulder gestured toward the cell phone.

"No. No outside contacts."

"Then I'm afraid you're stuck--Agent Doggett can't give you what you want either."

"Then you leave me with no choice." Barnes brought the gun back up to Mulder's face, and suddenly, Doggett sprang with amazing vitality onto Barnes to tackle him down to the ground. The gun fell to the ground, and the two men rolled over it before Mulder could grab it. As their struggle continued and it seemed as though Doggett was winning the battle, Barnes grabbed his arm and squeezed it roughly.

Doggett recoiled and keeled over. Barnes seized the gun and aimed it dangerously inches away from Doggett's nose. "No, wait! Don't kill him!" Mulder pleaded.

"It's too late. I don't need dis man," Barnes' Germanic accent came back.

"Is that what you're all about? Killing Doggett won't solve your problems. Believe me. It's very likely that the FBI has set up listening devices so they can hear us, and make no mistake about it, they will come in here and kill you if you shoot him. Then how can you accomplish your mission if you're dead?"

"I already _am_ dead, you fool. And now, so is he." Mulder pushed Barnes' arms away as the gun fired, and Barnes rewarded Mulder with a blow to the back of the head for his troubles. The former FBI agent tumbled onto Doggett, who grimaced painfully.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Lone Gunmen Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

January 5th, 2001, 1:22 a.m.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Langly yelled at the persistent intruder knocking at the door. He eased himself off of his barstool in front of the computer and glanced at the screen before locking it back up again. He had gotten so far as the preliminary encryption of the "Witness Protection Program" database, but unfortunately could not go any farther without arousing suspicion. Mulder was a great friend and Doggett wasn't that bad, but there was a line he drew when it came to sacrificing the Gunmen's anonymity.

"If I hear shave and a haircut _one_ more time," he muttered as he unlocked every dead bolt and chain, "I'm gonna-"

Langly never finished his sentence; he was completely awestruck as he opened the door and looked up into Agent Monica Reyes' eyes. "I'm Agent Reyes. Agent Scully sent me," Reyes showed him her badge, and he quickly pulled her inside without a second to lose.

"You can put down the ID, g-woman, I know who and what you are. Since you're a friend of Scully and Doggett, we'll dispense with the formalities."

"Oh-kay," she nodded bewilderingly and stuffed a stick of gum into her mouth. "Which one are you?"

"Uh...the name's Langly. I don't exactly get why you still came--Scully just called and told me that they were denied access. Although my mojo's good and my engines are running as smooth as glass, I can't break through that encryption without getting into some major trouble."

"That's all right, Langly. Agent Scully said that you could possibly get into some old newspaper archives, and that maybe we could get a hit off of one of them."

"A hit? That sounds more like a Mulder colloquialism rather than Scully." He scratched his blonde head and led her over to his desktop station. "But anyhow, yes, I can probably get you anything you want...provided that it was in print and not carved into stone."

"Actually, it's an appellation from the world of metaphysical science," Reyes corrected him and bit down onto one side of her mouth a little too hard. "Ouch."

He gave her a casual glance of inquiry as he mounted the stool again.

"Bit the inside of my cheek," she shrugged. "I understand that Barnes is part of this Witness Protection Program, but yet...Scully seems to think that he suffers from dissociative identity disorder. Would you mind looking for someone named Commander Schultz in the European archives?"

"Why would you or she think that this Schultz made it into the news?" Langly swiveled the seat around to face the computer. "And why Europe?"

"Because when she spoke to him on the phone, he only would talk to her in German. Perhaps he has some kind of ties with Barnes. What's Barnes' occupation?"

"I could only find the last five years, Agent Reyes, so...right now he's a delivery man and truck driver for UPS. The only kind of conspiracy I could see happening between him and a German would probably be some stolen Bose speakers."

"Agent Scully let me listen to some of the conversation...I think you need to check for Western European headlines in the 1930s or 40s."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now you want to broaden the search?"

"I've got a different theory."

"How so?" He brought up the Internet and a search engine.

"I don't think that Barnes has DID. I think he's possessed by someone from the past--this Commander Schultz, as it were."

"Hmm...I was wondering when the Mulder connection was going to come in. So you want me to look for...what? Car crash, a scandal, a murder, a theft...what's your common denominator?"

"A car bomb. Betrayal."

"All right, here. Just let me fill in some more fields to narrow it down. Uh...do we have a first name?"

"Oh, crap. I'm blanking out on it right this second." She sighed and started to pat her jacket down. "Do you mind if I smoke in here?"

"Well, we've got a lot of sensitive electronic equipment, Agent Reyes, and I've got asthma, so if you wouldn't mind...I'll come and get you immediately if I turn anything up-" he offered.

"Okay. I'll be outside, then." Reyes wedged her thumb into her mouth, pulled out the gum, and threw it into a wastebasket on her way out. Just after she stepped outside and lit up, her cell phone startled her. "Monica Reyes. Oh, hello, Agent Scully. Yes, I got here. Langly's running the search --he just started about a minute ago. First of all, I'm a little tired from the day, and so I couldn't remember Schultz's first name. Do you?" Reyes nodded. "Thanks. I made a slight modification to Langly's research . I don't think Barnes is mentally ill. I think he's been possessed." She scrawled the name down and slipped the paper under the complex's door.

The raven haired agent took in a few long drags as she listened to the other half of the conversation. "Yes, that's true. But then there was that one fluke you told me about--he didn't know what a cell phone was, right? How else do you explain that? And that he didn't know who the FBI is. Mmhmm. Well, yes, I can understand that, Dana. But I honestly don't think that you're looking for the most simple explanation. No, I didn't say that. It could've happened during the explosion Barnes was involved in. You're Catholic, right? So then you believe in possession."

As if on cue, a thunderous cloud covered the moonlight Reyes had been standing in and rumbled. She glanced upward and blew out her toxic fumes into the sky. "That's a pretty traumatic experience, wouldn't you say, Dana? I doubt it would cause post traumatic stress syndrome or dissociative identity disorder, and Mulder would definitely agree with me. The most common causality for DID is sexual molestation, assault, or ritualistic abuse. No, Langly didn't find any abnormal behavior like that in his evaluations except until three months ago."

"Agent Reyes?" Langly called from the open door, and she turned towards him with one hand cupped over the receiver. "We've struck gold."

"I've got Agent Scully on the phone right now. What is it?" The storm grew louder and more ominous. The heavens grew completely dark; there were no more chances for moonlight to peak through. He looked around warily. "Is there something wrong?"

"I don't want to let all of Washington know!" he yelled back. Reyes heaved a sigh and lifted the phone back up to her ear.

"It's getting harder to hear you, Agent Scully. I'll call you from their landline in a minute. Mmhmm. Will do." She hung up and trailed Langly back inside. Moments later, the few droplets that had commenced to tickle her throughout her outside discussion transmogrified into a harsh pour.

"Okay. I found an article in 1943 in a French newspaper about a man's remains found just outside of Alsace Lorraine due to the explosion of a car. It doesn't mention a Commander Schultz or betrayal or anything having to do with the Nazis."

"That's a start. Is there a picture of the remains?"

"Nope. Would you like for me to continue searching?"

"Yes, but not in the newspaper archives. See if you can find any birth or death records regarding Schultz. Or is that outside of your realm?"

"Agent Reyes, we at the Lone Gunmen Headquarters have many outside contacts. It just so happens that I know of a man's girlfriend that has influences over a member of the German embassy in D.C. He'll give us anything we need."

"At one forty five in the morning?" Reyes observed the digital clock's time on the brick wall.

"She might be on her way home right now from the airport."

"And what sort of influences might those be?"

"She's a flight attendant. Do the math." Langly's hand meandered over to the cordless phone near his keyboard. "So what's your final answer?"

"Okay. How long will this take?"

"The usual time...about twelve minutes." Reyes rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Oh...you mean to get the information. You can probably add another ten minutes to that sum. Diplomats have total immunity, you know."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that. Here, use my phone. I need to be able to talk to Agent Scully clearly."

"All right, I'll do it based on two favors from you. One, is that you will _never_ mention how you got the information because she's a secret informant, and two is more of a question for you."

"You even keep secrets from Agent Mulder and Scully?"

"Only when it's completely necessary. And in this case, it's extremely necessary. One party knows of the other party, but not of the party's nocturnal activities."

"Fine. Whatever," Reyes remarked and was utterly perplexed by his last sentence. But at this point, logic had been thrown out the window five minutes ago. "What's the question, Langly?"

"Did Scully tell you the baby's gender?"

"No. I don't even think she knows." She picked up their phone and handed him hers. Langly shrugged, hopped off of the stool, and strolled into their kitchen. "Agent Scully? It's Monica Reyes."

"Thanks for being so quick, Monica," Scully's silky voice returned.

"There are a few blanks left to be filled in, but, we're getting there. Langly recovered an article that could possibly concern this man from a French newspaper in 1943--and is now following up on it to wrap up the details. You don't still think that Barnes has DID, do you?"

"Right now, I'd have to logically say yes. Neither personality is aware of the other nor of their actions."

"And those are the same idiosyncrasies that match possession--but possession involves far more erratic behavior."

"I'm familiar with cases that involve several identities surfacing at several different times. Then, sometimes, the identity doesn't show up for a number of months or years at a time, depending on the situation," Scully countered. "That information was _not_ found in an X-File, by the way."

"Neither was this, Dana. Okay, here's a test. Call him up again and ask to speak with Barnes."

"And this is going to do what?"

"If it's dissociative identity disorder, it's very likely that Barnes will answer. Maybe not right away, but he'll come around...if he feels safe. However, here's the other side of the coin I'm hoping for; you're only going to be able to talk to Schultz. Once a dominant spirit enters the host, the change is at first subtle. Then, through certain events it can become permanent."

"What kind of events?"

"Depends on the reason why this spirit found Barnes' body. My guess would be that since Barnes was involved in a car bombing, Schultz jumped in and decided to drive. Only Barnes wouldn't let him at first--but now, since Schultz's personality is so aggressive, he probably has taken over completely."

"I don't agree with you right now, but even if I tried this, it sounds like a bad idea."

"How?"

"Suppose I find out that he _is_ possessed over the phone. Then what would you propose--a visit from my priest?"

"Try to sympathize with him and find out what he's really after."

"I don't agree with feeding into his illusions, Monica," Scully sighed. "Mulder has done that before, and that only impaired the case's outcome."

"Then what were you hoping to find with me and Langly here?" Reyes questioned Scully and glanced over her shoulder at the blonde Michael Bolton still occupying her phone.

"I don't know, perhaps the type of anti-psychotic antagonists he's currently taking, the name of a therapist he's seeing...there has to be a scientific explanation for all of this irrationality."

"He did start seeing a therapist two months ago, but that was before he stabbed her in the arm with a fountain pen. For that, he was incarcerated for a week. So, I don't believe that she tapped into his good aura. Says here under the police report that she told them that 'Barnes is not the same person that he was at the beginning of our sessions. He would start to look about the room and ask about the various appliances, books, and media.'"

"That could just mean that one of the personalities was unaware of his or her surroundings...not necessarily possession. Oh no."

"What's the matter?"

"I've got to go, Monica. That idiot from the police is sending in a SWAT team already."

Georg Apartments, Salzburg, Germany

March 29th, 1943, 7:39 a.m.

Schultz eventually drove the taxi down a few block, settled down for the night in the shadows, and bravely withstood a blustering wind that virtually tore through all of his layers. He could hardly wait for the sun to rise, and as it did, he had never felt more glad for natural light in his entire life. During the night, Schultz had been woken four times by some patrolling police and each time, he mentioned the universal "sig heil". Twice had they believed him; the other two times, he had to actually get up and show them his identification. He would report this to Wielen as soon as possible. Now was practically as good a time as ever, he told himself.

However, just as Schultz was about to arise, he observed Kennedy walking around the corner. The suitcase in her hand was enough to tell him that she and Granger were going to leave today, if not this very morning. _Perhaps the complaint to Wielen can wait_. _They'll be leaving today for Paris, and he'll be expecting me to follow._

Half an hour later, they came out of the apartment entrance with no baggage whatsoever. Granger had obviously pointed out that that was a mistake upon her part, and just in case someone had seen her go in with a valise, the same person would therefore assume she was staying the night. She seemed to have more of a calm air about herself but Schultz could still tell that she was nervous. Granger was doing his best; he played the part of the nurturing lover too well. The way he stroked her face and kissed her palm said it all. A bond of trust had been established between the two of them last night, and Schultz wanted nothing more than to break through it with a broadsword.

He pursued them as far as the train station and headed into a public telephone booth as they stepped onto the platform to buy their tickets. It was time to establish contact with some of his informants in Alsace--and he could also use some reinforcements. "∫a? I need to talk to Wielen, bitte. Kommander Wielen. ∫a, I can wait." Schultz eyed the departure board that was nearly twenty feet away and noticed that he had ten minutes to embark upon that train before it left. Trains in Germany operated punctually; they did and would not wait for any latecomers.

"Forget the codes and formalities. Tell him it's Der Panter, and I have ten...no, nine minutes until my train leaves," he snapped at the operator.

"Dis is Wielen," the superior replied finally after another long minute. "What's this I hear about a train?"

"They're leaving for Paris, France. I need your assurance for my pursuit."

"You have it. Where does it stop beforehand?"

"I think Alsace is the halfway point."

"Good. Radio me from there and report your progress." Wielen hung up, and Schultz bought the last ticket before the clerk shut down his window. He did not mind having to make plans at the last minute, but unexpected travel always threw him a nasty curve, this one being that he had no other clothes, and that it was two days' journey to Paris by train from Salzburg. Well, perhaps he could get some more when they reached Alsace.

Unfortunately, since he did purchase the final ticket, Schultz had to share his compartment with a complete stranger. A stranger that looked about as old as his parents' first record player and totally bothered that he had to scoot over for Schultz. But at least he was a quiet old man--one that would not be easily missed if necessary to be disposed of.

Schultz began to search through his pockets which unfortunately ensnared his companion's attention. "Ach...forgot my cigarettes," he told the man, who shrugged and thankfully brought out a newspaper to hide behind. Schultz's fingers found his Luger; it was loaded with a full magazine, but he was without spare ammunition.

Granger and Kennedy passed by the compartment minutes later; Schultz lifted his head slightly to notice that their pace had slowed down. Granger opened the door for her and followed her inside swiftly afterward. Schultz's companion lowered his newspaper immediately as soon as he heard the English between the man and woman. But when Schultz gave no outward reaction of shock, the man yawned and leaned his head back against his seat. Minutes later, he was completely dormant; Schultz took advantage of the situation and pressed his ear against the wall.

"And just how dangerous do you expect Paris to be?" Kennedy's silky voice questioned Granger.

"Considering that it's still in the occupation of the Third Reich...fairly so. I have a diplomatic passport; we should be just fine. And if need be, Kolbe's contacts will give us some financial support in Alsace." There were some shifting and banging noises; he must have been moving suitcases. _Suitcases? Neither had valises when they left._

"Where did you...I thought you left those at the apartment!"

"That's what I wanted whoever was following us to think...that we were just staying together for a while."

"But how...--"

"I'm trained to think that way, Kennedy," Granger assured her. "There's _always_ someone to watch out for."

"When I go back to finish my degree, I think I should apply for a course in espionage, yes?"

"Just start with the basic mantra of "trust no one"."

"You mean you don't trust me?" Kennedy's tone became defensive.

"Trust is something to be earned. Now don't give me that look. I had faith that you would meet me this morning, and you did. You also blindly left your suitcase behind to come with me here, even though I gave you no specific reason why. I _trust_ that you'll let me look through your belongings, then."

"What, do you want to check for a gun or something?"

"No. I'd actually like to do nothing more than to rifle through your lingerie..." he flipped it open.

"The letters aren't in there."

"Then where are they?" Granger's hand was still in the valise as he spun around to glare at her in exasperation.

"Well, since you told me to leave the suitcase behind, I took the letters with me."

"Good choice. Now, will you let me have them?" His hand vanished from the case and quickly appeared about a foot away from her face.

"You're just traveling with me to protect me. I'm the one to deliver them," Kennedy's voice patronized him.

"I'll give them right back; I just want to read them."

"I'm getting hungry, Granger."

"Don't change the subject," he snarled. Kennedy's eyes left his, and she turned her head in the opposite direction. "You're afraid of something. What is it?" He relaxed a bit and sat down next to her. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. God forbid something should happen to either one of us, but the information should remain inside our heads and no one else's."

"I don't understand you, Granger."

"These next few days while we're together, we'll need to study these letters and memorize them. That way they can be destroyed before they fall into the wrong hands."

"I thought you said that no one was following us."

"I said I took the best precautions to make sure that no one was following us. I'm sure it won't shock a woman with your calibre of intelligence to hear that I've done this before. It's just like coming home for me," he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Which part?" Her jaw twisted around and nervously, her tongue ran itself over her top lip. As he moved over her fingers lightly, he smiled and added his warm breath.

"Everything, of course," he finally murmured, and she scraped the tips of her fingers across his cheek.

"Much as I'd hate to interrupt you, but I _am_ starving. Want to discuss these over breakfast?" Kennedy drew her hand away, placed it into her overcoat, and removed the letters.

"God, no. Keep them away from the public sight. But, yes, Kennedy, I'd like to discuss _you_ over breakfast. And that's all." He arose, and their compartment door opened.

This was only the beginning of their trip; Schultz knew that he was going to be driven crazy if he had to keep up appearances in front of this old man for too much longer. So the next time he got up to go to the bathroom; Schultz followed him and used the belt of his pants to finish the man off quickly. He could not afford to waste bullets or arouse suspicion, for Granger and Kennedy were just arriving back down the corridor. Unfortunately, he opened the door at the wrong time, and Kennedy noticed him. He averted her direct eye contact and shut the door.

Thirty seconds after he re-opened the commode and locked the body inside, he journeyed through the hallway to his quarters. Granger and Kennedy stayed with English; it was difficult for him now. They were speaking so softly and using more colloquialisms that he could not follow. But he understood that she had seen him somewhere before...he wished that it had been at a party instead.

Schultz gazed at the ring he wore on his right hand; inside of it were two potassium cyanide pills. It would be so much more easier now. Easier now to take these than to fail--or to lose such a gorgeous woman to such a vulgar creature as Granger. She wasn't wearing anything nearly as formal as last night. Her dress was business attire, consisting of a knee-length, pleated, chartreuse skirt and a long sleeved off-white blouse. To him, it did not matter what she wore; her eyes spoke volumes to the rest of her diminutive figure, and in that fluke of a moment when she saw him completing his business, they seemed as warm as a day in June. He had held his breath--not just because he was shocked that he caught her glance but also because the air became trapped in his lungs. He had to tell himself to breathe voluntarily.

Why now? Why should this happen to him? Der Panter, the legend of the Sicherdienst, melts to butter in the presence of a woman?

_She's not just any woman_, he reasoned with himself.

_That's right. She's a traitor. A traitor that should be hanged like all the rest of the rats in the woodpile. A pile that Fritz Kolbe will soon join_. _Forget your ridiculous hormonal sentiments and get back to work. Complete your mission._

Schultz pushed away his personal contemplations and began to think of a way to separate the two of them for the evening. The letters, whatever was in them, were the most important objects to intercept.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Outside the Hoover Building

January 5th, 2001, 1:25 a.m.

"That is _the_ most ludicrous idea I have ever heard," Lieutenant Carson Raines rolled his eyes and crashed his fist onto a squad car's windshield. "Have you told your boss about this?"

"It's not something to debate about," Scully crossed her arms.

"I'm not about to send a squad of my men to clear a building for a pregnant woman to go join her 'significant other'."

"This is _not_ about me, Lieutenant. This is about getting a man with a gunshot wound out and to a hospital. God knows how much blood he's lost--Mulder's not a medic. We're making a trade."

"And this is assuming of course that you'll be talking to the one who understands English," Raines rolled his radio's antenna between his fingers impatiently.

"They _both_ understand English. One of them speaks-"

"Lieutenant, this is the Alpha Squad Leader McClellan with a status report," echoed the walkie talkie.

"Go ahead, over," the lieutenant brought the radio up to his ear and held up his index finger to the FBI agent.

"We've got the lobby secured, sir. Death toll is as follows: 3 security guards found in the bathroom handcuffed to the stalls, and one more at the desk. The guards in the men's room were probably dragged there after being shot. The desk sentry's gun is missing and so are his auxiliary rounds, over."

"Can you access the security footage, over?"

"Sure, sir, but I thought we were supposed to be clearing the lobby for the bomb squad, over."

"You've done your duty correctly, then. They'll be coming in shortly. But first, I want you to see if you can get any more information on our terrorists, over," Raines exchanged glances with Scully, whose expression brightened from its torrential stormy glare.

"I don't need security footage to be able to tell you how many men performed this attack, sir, if that's what you're wanting to know. I can even tell you how he moved, and what kind of ammunition he's got with him, over."

"One man? You're saying that _one_ man did this?" Raines became so baffled that he forgot proper radio etiquette. A few seconds later after McClellan was silent, he finally stuttered an 'over' back.

"That's correct, sir. I cannot tell you how much ammunition he's accumulated yet since we've just secured the lobby, but I know for sure that he's got a standard SIG Sauer 9mm. I believe that is the standard FBI issued handgun, over."

After receiving a slight nod and nonchalant shrug from Scully, the lieutenant confirmed it with a yes. It was too bad for him that Skinner was on top of the adjacent building. Besides Mulder, he was the only one that could read through Scully's body language when she was perturbed. And when Scully became upset, her behavior became even more irrational than Mulder's. Right now, she was moments away from storming the Hoover building with her own automatic pistol and threatening the terrorist herself.

"Should we continue to the next floor and let the bomb team enter, sir?" the officer continued. Scully's cell phone suddenly caught the both of them off guard, and she motioned for him to wait a moment as she answered it.

"Scully."

"It's Skinner. They're in my office."

"Your office? Sir, are you positive about this?"

"Yes. I always push my chair in before I leave my office for the night. This office's chair has been moved away from the desk--Barnes was probably sitting in it to watch Mulder and Doggett. In fact, I'm sure of it. There he goes now."

"Wait a minute," Scully yelled to Raines, who was becoming impatient and was just about to speak into the walkie talkie again. "You've got to help me convince this idiot Raines to let me into the building."

"What! Scully, have you lost your mind?"

"Doggett needs to go to a hospital, and you know damn well that Mulder's no physician. We'll make a trade."

"What makes you think this schizophrenic will listen or deal with you? Remember what happened with Duane Berry!"

_All too well_, she thought. _And right now, I don't give a damn._

"We'll make Barnes think he's got the upper hand. Then when he's in his weakest moment, we can get him." _I have to see Mulder._

"You're choosing an awfully dangerous path, Agent. Even if you got through, what if he blows the building?"

"Please, sir...I need to be with him," she whispered the last phrase. There was a pause on the line as Skinner reviewed the facts to himself. "Clear the SWAT teams away as soon as Doggett gets out as well as everyone near the Hoover within the blast radius."

"Scully, you're asking a lot...some people might call it-"

"Selfish? If you know anything about us, sir, then you understand how much we mean to one another. I can't lose him again, and I don't think he could bear to lose me."

"All right. Give Raines your phone," he said gruffly after what seemed like an eternity to her. As she did, she could have sworn that she heard him mumbling about how much Mulder had rubbed off on her, which almost would have made her smile if this weren't such a serious circumstance.

"My superior would like a word with you," Scully announced, and Raines grunted in reply.

"Yes, I'm very aware of your agent's request, AD Skinner. Well, I don't want to get my men blown shit sky high, that's why I'm denying it. Yes, of course, I'm concerned about her," he rolled his eyes to the heavens. "I make the final decisions here, Mr. Skinner. I'm not about to let some psychotic blow up the Hoover building because of two agents' devotion to one another...and by the way you're taking it, I'm believing it to be something more...unprofessional."

Scully's head snapped away from a nearby rally that was cursing the FBI and its Nazi-like investigative methods. She rewarded Raines with a bitter glare.

"I realize that you're also emotionally attached to these agents, too. Now hang on before you start to raise your...--what the--Mr. Skinner? Are you there, Skinner?" Scully's expression changed to concern as his face contorted into confusion. "Is anybody near this phone or man?" he yelled. When no response came, he shoved the mobile unit back into her arms and got back onto his radio. "Bravo squad Leader come in, this is Raines, over."

"This is Bravo squad Leader Denario, I hear you, over," came the reply.

"Check out that Assistant Director, will you? I think I lost reception with him or something, over. So much for that great FBI technology that _never _interferes with anything," he mumbled.

"He's about ten feet away from me, sir, and is complaining about his dead battery. Want me to put him on, over?"

"No. Have your men take him outta there and load him into the paddy wagon, over." Raines held his hand up in Scully's face and then signified with his index finger that he wasn't finished speaking yet. "If need be, do it forcefully. You keep cover of where you're supposed to be while they're doing this, over."

After Denario's acknowledgment, Raines shut off the walkie talkie. "He was starting to threaten me. The man is tired and needs to sleep it off. I _am_ going to let you go in there, Agent Scully. But not until my bomb squad has said it's okay. You sound like you've got some things mentally under control, but if need be, I'll also throw you in there with Skinner. Don't interfere in my investigation. You got me?"

She nodded. "May I ask how long this will take? Remember, there are men in there suffering blood loss. If any more wounds occur, they could be life threatening."

"I've got six guys plus the SWAT team members covering their asses. Which floor is Skinner's office on?"

"The third floor. There also is a basement, and one more above Skinner's."

"Starting now, I'll say fifteen minutes. McClellan?" Raines held up his radio again and turned the volume up so both of them could hear the leader.

"This is McClellan, Alpha squad Leader, sir."

"Start the bomb search and don't turn off your radio. Agent Scully and I can't see shit down here, so we need to hear what you're seeing and hearing from the other team members, over."

"10/4." As soon as Raines' conversation ended, Scully's phone chirped rudely. She fished it out of her pocket, saw that it was Reyes, and removed the headset from her ear. "Scully," she replied.

"Hi, Dana, it's Monica. I've got lots of information to fill in the blanks of our mysteriously possessed kidnapper, courtesy of Langly here."

_Thank God it wasn't Frohike_, Scully thought to herself. _I just might have had to make good on all those innuendoes he throws at me constantly._

"I'm listening, Monica, please go ahead."

"Well, here's the deal. Donald Granger was a member of the Office of Strategic Services from 1942 to 1945, and he served in Europe from '42 till '44. The year after that, he became a superior of the counterintelligence service back in the States. This is the man that Barnes, aka Schultz, thinks Mulder is."

"Does he resemble Mulder at all?"

"Couldn't find a picture of him. But, here's some more history for you to follow before you dismiss my theory totally. Joy Kennedy was the secretary to Fritz Kolbe, a foreign minister to Germany until about 1943. She emigrated to Ireland sometime later, married, and had two sons and two daughters."

"Why do you say 'sometime' later?" Scully inquired.

"Well, the first son was born in 1949. Langly wasn't able to locate the marriage license. I guess I'm assuming that they got married."

"And your point is...-"

"His name was Michael Kennedy. Joy's date of death was April 3rd, 1964. Hmph, so much for the idea of marriage. The children were divided up and sent to social services. But Michael was adopted by Hiram and Katie Scully of October that same year." Scully's intake of oxygen was suddenly erratic.

"Those were my grandparents' names. Are you telling me that I've got an uncle named Michael?" Scully also felt her throat constrict.

"Yes, and unfortunately...well, I don't think I have to tell you _why_ Hiram and Katie took Michael under their wings," Monica finished slowly.

"No, it's not necessary," the red headed FBI agent paused to gather herself. "But what else has this to do with me?"

"I think, Dana, that Schultz sees that you sound and look so much like Joy Kennedy because you're related! He must have been in love with her."

"So now you're saying that some man who's possessed is mistaking me for an illegitimate grandmother of mine? And is also on the same mission to recover some important letters?" Scully burst out laughing. "Oh, that one could even topple a Mulder theory! Or better yet, be a Jerry Springer topic of the week!"

"But what if it's true, Agent Scully?" Reyes waited until her outburst subsided.

"If it's true, then Mulder and I will break the rumors that have been circulating around the water cooler for nearly eight years finally. And give the Gunmen ringside seats."

"Um...I'm not quite sure of how to respond to that.."

"You might want to re-think that bet, Scully," Langly's voice chimed in. "Agent Reyes here is pretty much reading word for word what I found from our contact. Well, except about the possession and being in love with you part."

"He hasn't even _seen_ what I look like!" Scully exclaimed. "How could this...no...no, this is too farfetched." She clapped her hand over the phone and glanced up at Raines. "Did you send the bomb squads in?"

"Yeah, and they've already gone up to the second floor. I got better things to do than wait around for an FBI agent to finish up her phone calls," he responded coolly. "Go ahead, McClellan. Sorry about the interruption, over."

The call forwarding tone warned her that she had an incoming call, and the word 'Mulder' flashed intermittently on it. "I've got to go. I think Mulder's calling me," she told Reyes and Langly. Without another hesitation, she picked up. "Mulder?"

"So where did the train go after Alsace?" Barnes' Germanic accent made her swallow her next mouthful of saliva very carefully.

What could she say? If she tried to bring Barnes back into reality, he could snap easily and kill his captives without a moment to lose. However, if she pushed him over the edge of his fantasy and angered him, the outcome could still be the same. Every single impulse in her brain was screaming at her _not_ to feed into the illusion--his illusion. But her heart ached to see Mulder, and if this were the only way she could do it, then let it be done.

"Paris," she murmured.

"And then where did you go?"

"We took a car to St. Milo, and a plane picked us up to go to London the next night."

"Did you make love?"

"What? How did you learn to use this phone?" Reluctant to lie anymore, she diverted him.

"Dis other man taught me. I had to speak to you--a privilege I never had before. Now tell me, did you make love?"

"Wilhem, do you know what year it is?"

"I am certain it is _not_ 1943," he chuffed and paused. "But that does not matter. The information I have is either on one of you or inside you. Tell me, now, Kennedy. Did you make love?"

"The man...who showed you the phone. He's wounded, isn't he?"

"I shot him, yes."

"He needs to go to a hospital so that he won't bleed to death."

"Answer my question."

Scully took a deep breath as she considered her words. "There wasn't time."

"I will let the other man go if you come up here."

"Please tell me what you want."

"You'll get it when you arrive in this place."

"Fourth floor is clear, sir," McClellan's voice echoed from the walkie talkie.

"Good. Agent Scully, every bone in my body is telling me that I'm sending you to your grave. And my snipers up there are waiting for two clean shots. Once you enter that office and the wounded man is out, my teams leave the Hoover. Keep his attention on you and his back towards the window," Raines mopped his forehead with a Kleenex. "And just in case I don't see you again, may God have mercy on your souls."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Just outside of Alsace-Lorraine, France

March 30th, 1943, 1:52 a.m.

"I don't think we'll get too much more stuff memorized tonight," Granger slurred and shuffled Kolbe's letters around until they were almost lined up. A boisterous giggle emitted itself from Kennedy's lips, and she put her champagne flute onto the compartment's floor.

"No, very likely not," she agreed. "Although I think you've had more to drink than I. What is stuff?" she asked after a few silent moments.

"You know what the word 'things' is, right?"

"Of course."

"Well..." He folded up the letters and wadded them into his coat pocket. "Same meaning...different word." Granger noticed her shiver and placed the jacket around her shoulders. "Now, let's review once more. I'll say a sentence, and then you say the next."

"Ach...I haven't had that kind of pressure since my bad acting days in secondary school."

"How about this kind?" He seized one of her hands and began to gently breathe and rub it in between his.

"S'good," she mumbled, slightly distracted by their physical contact. "Granger?"

"Hmm?" He clasped both of her tiny hands into his own.

"The letters?"

"Yes, I'm getting to them." His mouth descended fully into her hands as he placed petite butterfly kisses into them. "Dear Ian, I am reluctant to send this message to you using Austria's postal service."

"The telegraph system is under a heavy surveillance--they've broken through our codes before," Kennedy continued.

"This is why I am sending this under my assistant." Granger eased his way to the back of her palm and inhaled her as he traveled up her arm. "Mmm...this is good perfume, but I'll buy you the best of the best when we get to the Champs Elysees."

"And how long will we be there?" Kennedy slid out of her shoes and reclined herself against the window, putting more distance in between the two of them.

"Depends on how many people I have to bribe in order to get out of the country. The fewer times money exchanges between hands, the less time it will take."

"Give me an estimation." He retrieved the champagne glass and offered it to her with a rueful grin. As soon as the bubbly liquid disappeared down her throat, he sneaked closer to her and bent down just inches away from her mouth.

"There is a rat in your organization," Granger breathed. "And I can't wait to taste that champagne from your lips. Are they numb yet?"

"Granger, this is a four paged letter! How do you expect to get through-" she never got to finish her lament and honestly did not want to. Although he had been exceedingly close, she was not entirely sure as to when he was going to close that gap in between their mouths. Now that their lips were entwined, he was expecting more and since the alcohol was giving her a lovely buzz, she became his emotional captive.

Just as his mouth began to open into hers, she pulled away. "And he's been giving intelligence reports to the Third Reich about your aircraft," Kennedy continued.

"All business and no pleasure, Kennedy?" He almost looked like a hurt animal, and his pout became more irresistible. In fact, his eyes gleamed with pleasure and wandered into previously forbidden territory.

"No. I just wanted the last coherent words of the evening," she beamed and drew him down to her by his necktie.

Next door, Schultz was beside himself. He had stopped listening after their first kiss and was now on the verge of insane jealousy. He had to do something--so he did the only thing he could do without blowing his cover--he visited the bar in the adjacent car.

Schultz's thoughts turned to his four nieces and nephews. His sister had just died from cancer, and her husband was serving in the Navy, causing him to send them to live with their grandparents in Denmark. He didn't like doing it at all, but sending them away because his civil service was requested was the only choice. Schultz grasped his wallet and unfolded a picture of the family; they were happy once. Why couldn't they be with their father now?

His membership card to the Nazi party also fell out with the photograph; and he remembered immediately why. There was a war to be fought. How the war would end was anyone's guess, but ever since the Americans joined, the Axis powers had not been doing so well. There was a great depression at the end of the first world war; what kind of disrepair could another loss cause to happen? This war was just as big if not more huge than the first--so many more enemies and countries were involved this time.

He disliked the idea of war, but understood its purpose. There was much turmoil in the smaller countries that the Fuher had conquered, and it magically disappeared when the Germans stepped into the door. They brought order to the chaos of most of Europe and North Africa--now it was only a matter of time before all of France was taken and England as well. Spain, well--they could just separate themselves into a different continent, for all he cared. The civil war seemed to be solving many problems within their country, and they weren't bothering anyone else, so why not leave them alone?

America was a fortress; there would be no way to get to them. Although the Japanese did go in the back door, the US swiftly fought back and are now making them sorry they ever flew over Hawaii.

As Schultz gulped down his gin and tonics one after the other, he decided that in the morning, since they were going to be in the town for a while, he would kill Granger. That way, there would be no need for him to separate him from Kennedy to get the letters, and no further discretion would be necessary. He had his "schutzhaft"--his carte blanche privilege that applied to every civil and service member of the Third Reich's military. They could take _anyone_ they wished into questioning or perhaps throw them into a concentration camp. Murders were generally overlooked if they could be rationalized by the offender as to the Fuher's cause.

Six hours later...

The train's terrific halt jerked Schultz from his sleep. He rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes after they adjusted to the harsh morning light. Groggily, he remembered that he had to contact Wielen today while they were in Alsace Lorraine and give a full status report. "Ach...scheillße," he groaned and stroked his pounding head. Now he remembered why he vowed years ago not to touch alcohol--mastodons were now parading on top of his cranium by the second.

Schultz retrieved his wrinkled trench coat from underneath himself and shrugged into it. He stepped off of the train and for once was glad that it was an overcast day. Today, the sun was his enemy.

Granger and Kennedy were nowhere in sight--before he passed out the night before, he overheard a smidgen of their conversation. They too planned to get off the train, but only to eat breakfast so far as he knew. The rest of the words were too difficult for his inebriated mind to translate from English to German, and by that time, he was out cold.

As Schultz made his way down to the police station, he berated himself for being so asinine. Sometimes he wished that he could have a partner to be accountable to and for--but this work was too dangerous unless the two minds worked precisely like two synchronized clocks. Someone to trust would have kept him out of the bar last night.

What was the name of this police chief? Renard? Rousseau? Napier? Wielen had only mentioned it once, but that was as Schultz was watching Kennedy board the train with Granger. The wind had been blowing as fiercely as a hungry tiger, and it gave him goosebumps seeing her hair blow wildly around. He shook off his distracted thoughts and approached the wooden doors. "J'ai besoin parler avec vos capitain," Schultz told the officer at the desk in his best French, which was, by his standards, worth a lop-sided smirk. As he disappeared from his post briefly, Schultz wondered if the gesture was made towards his foreign accent or ethnicity. Alsace-Lorraine was under Vichy, but from time to time, there were insurgents that rose up foolishly against the Third Reich.

"Cinq minutes, monsieur. Renard est occupe," the officer returned and held up an open palm.

"Maintenant," Schultz demanded.

"Cinq minutes." This time, Schultz leaned forward, coerced the man forward by the back of the neck, and shoved his face into his credentials.

"I said _now_."

"Sir, he is on the phone right now, otherwise I would show you in."

"Then I will wait inside," Schultz barked and snapped the badge closed around the officer's nose. He yelped and immediately let the Gestapo through.

It took less than five minutes of Schultz's manipulation to get through to Wielen on the police captain's radio. Granger could disappear if needed, and Kennedy would not be hurt. As Schultz stepped out of the captain's office, he motioned for Renard to come back in. "I'm finished."

"Herr Schultz, a car has been arranged for your trip to Paris," Renard told him.

"Who said I was going there?" Schultz narrowed his eyes; the captain _had_ been listening to his conversation.

"We received a cable from your superior in Saltzburg earlier this morning."

"Let me see it."

"Excusez moi?"

"I said let me see the telegraph." The captain rolled his eyes and brushed past Schultz to get to his bureau. He opened the top left handed drawer, unfolded the paper, and pushed it into the Gestapo's chest. Schultz caught the cable just as it was about to fall to the floor and read over the message. Why wouldn't Wielen have told him about this earlier?

Schultz then admitted to himself that Wielen could have forgotten to mention it, and that he didn't know Karl as well as he did Max. He reread the telegraph.

DRIVE TO PARIS. STOP. CAR PROVIDED BY US. STOP. MEET TRAIN AT ARRIVAL TIME. STOP. COMPLETE THE MISSION. STOP. WIELEN.

"Where is the automobile?" Schultz finally inquired of Renard and pocketed his note. Renard nodded and pointed outside.

"Across the street, Herr Schultz. The keys are inside the ignition."

"Danke." Schultz retrieved his Fedora from the desk and left the police precinct. There was not much traffic in this town, he noted. Agriculture must be this city's cistern.

He opened the car door and was just about to give life to the vehicle but stopped. There she was on the corner, rubbing her naked hands together and shivering from the wicked north wind. Odd. _Where is your ever present knight in shining armor, Kennedy? Forsake you for a better looking traitor?_

Suddenly, as if she could hear his thoughts, her eyes gazed over at him through his windshield. He was mortified--now she knew that he had been following them--this had been the second time she had seen him positively. He had to leave--now. Without another moment to lose, he started the engine. Kennedy's eyes left his, went back to her hands, and then behind the car.

Schultz spun around and saw Granger casually shuffling away. Granger passed the car, joined Kennedy, and gave his enemy a disrespectful left-handed salute. "You son of a bitch," Schultz muttered and his hand went to the gear shift. Just as he was about to change gears, he heard a deafening explosion, smelled gasoline, and felt nothing.

Skinner's Office, Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

January 5th, 2001, 2:07 a.m.

Scully cautiously opened the inner atrium door and half expected to be looking down the barrel of a gun, but instead, she found the office dimly lit and Barnes sitting in Skinner's executive chair. His gun was pointed in her direction, though. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she thought for one awful moment that it might explode. "Your hair is much longer than when I saw you last. All I have to ask is one simple thing: why?" he asked softly.

She wished that he was screaming at her; his lunacy was so much easier to believe when he was behaving like Duane Berry. A serene maniac meant there were bottled emotions that could shatter as unpredictably as glass. She needed Mulder's psychology helping her through this. He was the one that dealt better with kidnappers and serial killers; she was the scientist.

Where was he? She saw Doggett lying against the wall in a puddle of his own blood shivering. He slowly caught on that there was another presence in the room other than Barnes and lifted his face. Doggett's eyes left hers to answer her unasked inquiry and traveled to the left where Mulder was drifting in and out of consciousness on Skinner's couch. _Oh, God, he's in a concussion_, she thought.

"Why?" Barnes questioned her again.

"You said that this man could go free if I came."

"So I did, and when you answer me, I will help him go."

"Why what?"

"Why did you betray your country?"

"I haven't..." Scully's forehead wrinkled; Barnes grabbed a paperweight from Skinner's desk and threw it across the room into the television.

"The _hell_ you haven't! Then answer me this, you two-headed bitch."

"Two-faced," she muttered.

"What?"

"The idiom is 'two-faced'. You said 'two-headed'."

"So I did, Kennedy. Why betray de Fuher?"

"To have the American dream. He brought nothing but death, hatred, and suffering to Europe."

"He also created jobs," Barnes spat.

"I'm not here to argue with you."

"Quite right. I, for one, do not break my promises." He arose from the chair and picked Doggett up. Doggett limped his way out of the office with Barnes' assistance and once he was out of sight, Barnes slammed the door shut.

"Scully..." Mulder called weakly, and she traveled over to the sofa where he lay. She sat herself down near his head and began to stroke his hair.

"Mulder, don't make any sudden movements. Can you understand me?"

"Mmm...think so. Don't think...I'll be...going anywhere...soon."

"No, no, Mulder, you've got to stay awake."

"Why did you kill me?" Barnes interrupted them and pointed his finger directly at Mulder.

"Kill you? Look...fairly...alive to me," Mulder replied drunkenly.

"You idiot! This is not my body!"

"And this is not your time," Scully commented. "You were at peace once, Commander Schultz. Be at peace again--now."

"I've _never _been at peace. This was the first time since I died that I've come back...into another," Barnes hissed.

"Then you should know that this is the year 2001, and that I'm not Joy Kennedy. She was my once removed grandmother, and my name is Dana Scully." Their unstable captor froze in terror and seized his head between his hands.

"None of it makes any sense!"

"Calm down--we need to find a way to get you some rest." Scully paused for a few seconds as she continued her ministrations on Mulder's head. "Did you ever admit your requited feelings to her?"

By now, Barnes was completely tranced and distracted. He slumped down against a cabinet and neither spoke nor moved for two minutes. Scully's attention went back to Mulder, whose eyes were fluttering open and closed. "Mulder...how did we get here?" she sighed. His grunt was enough of a sign for her to continue. "I don't regret the choices I've made to stay with you. I said that once before--I want you to hear it again. Of course, you were more coherent the first time," she mused.

"Tell...me a story, Scully."

"Only if you don't conk out on me."

"I'll try not to."

"You seem to like hearing about how often I got into trouble best."

"Mmm...bad Scully...turns me on." Instead of giving him her usual arched brow, she grinned and shook her head.

"Well, Bill had just graduated from high school, and the entire Scully clan naturally was present for a backyard barbecue. Melissa and I witnessed some of my fellow Scully cousins with Bill doing shots in the basement. Being ten at the time, I had no idea what they were doing besides drinking something. She told me exactly what was going on, and unfortunately, I spoke a little too loudly by asking 'then why is the glass so small'? That's when we got caught. They grabbed the both of us. Bill laughed and brought me down the stairs entirely--oh--I remember that God awful whiskey breath..."

"Still has awful breath," Mulder slurred.

"Anyway," Scully rolled her eyes, "he towered over me and said 'I'll show you why the glass is so small'. So as you probably have already gathered in that crafty mind of yours, one of my loving kin poured him a shot of Jack. Melissa stood by sputtering curses to be let go and to Bill to leave me alone, but being the stubborn ass he always is...he didn't. Just when I thought he was going to force the whiskey down my throat, he knelt down in front of me and held up the shot glass. He gave me a choice. He said 'you can either tell Mom and Dad about this like a crybaby sister would...and gave Melissa a bitter look. 'Or you can find out why Melissa's so scared to let you have this.'" As Scully hesitated, Mulder's eyes opened.

"What'd...you do?"

"The only thing I could have done to gain Bill's respect--I drank it. And then I proceeded to spit it out onto his brand new white shirt. I really didn't do it on purpose, but to this day, I don't think Bill has ever believed me. For once, I wasn't the one to get into trouble--Mom found his dirty shirt in the laundry the very next day. The Scully family's entire stock of whiskey went down the drain an hour later."

"Only Irish...I know...doesn't drink-"

"Nonsense, Mulder. On a special occasion, I do like a strong scotch and soda." She glanced over at Barnes, saw no improvement, and returned her attentions to Mulder. "And if it weren't for the baby, I'd definitely be pouring myself one now. Speaking of, the water cooler polls are circulating to about 85 you, 10 Doggett, and the other five percent have got answers so creative that they could be x-files themselves. I'm no virgin, Mulder, but I'm still baffled, as to how this happened. Umph...this has got to be a boy--he's kicking around so much." Scully released his hair and winced as her abdomen moved slightly.

"Bets?" he questioned her weakly.

"$200 a head to get into the one that I heard the odds on. I'm surprised that they're not selling ringside tickets to my hospital room yet. Or maybe they are, and for once, people have learned to keep their mouths shut. Forgive me, Mulder, but I'm going to have to leave you for a few minutes and talk to Barnes. God help me if I get the two of us killed, but...he won't listen to anyone else."

"You won't."

"What?" she arose and turned.

"Kill us," he finished and closed his eyes.

"Schultz, I know it feels to not be able to admit to unrequited emotions," Scully began as she trudged over to Barnes. "But I ask you now to let them go--whether they are love or hate, I'm not sure...can you help me out?"

"Yes, I can," Barnes nodded and pulled himself up. "I can resolve both now that you're with me. Don't be afraid." But Scully felt just the opposite as he towered over her and stared fiendishly into her eyes. He reached behind himself and placed the gun onto Skinner's desk. His breathing became more excited as he pulled her closer to himself and crushed his lips to hers. She felt herself respond, although it was more out of fright, and prayed that Mulder could not see any of this. Barnes broke away and smiled. "I wanted you ever since I first saw you, Kennedy."

"I'm not...--" she halted herself from saying anything foolhardy and nervously licked her upper lip.

"In love with me? Of course not. How could you be? We were not meant to happen, and I can see that now." Barnes stepped away from her and was now perfectly in front of Skinner's office window. "But I came here for another reason today, and here it is." He reached into his coat, brought out an object, and just as he pushed the button, a bullet seared through the pane and entered his neck.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Georgetown University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

January 7th, 2001, 3:04 p.m.

Skinner's strides were rapid, but not frantic. He carried himself today with pride, and for once it wasn't Mulder or Scully that he came to see in this hospital. "What's up, Skin-Man?" Mulder greeted his former superior as Skinner opened the door to Doggett's room.

"Even though I am no longer your boss, I still reserve the right to deny you to call me that name," he huffed and bit his lip. "And aren't you supposed to be at home resting?"

"I rested yesterday and the day before. Today, I came to see Agent Doggett." Mulder motioned with his head towards the bathroom. Doggett came out a few seconds later, limping out with the help of a cane.

"How're you feeling, John?" Skinner inquired.

"Like my leg's been run through a giant cheese grater. Ahn, I've felt worse," he waived his hand away and used the railing to get back onto the hospital bed. "How long will it be before I can return to the office?"

"Kersh says a week, then you'll resume desk duties until you can walk again. I came not only just to tell you that, but to thank you for your bravery. The both of you, that is."

"In that case, do you think that Kersh might ease off on Mulder, here? Give him another shot in the Bureau?" Doggett asked Skinner, but he made eye contact with Mulder.

Skinner exhaled through his nose and shook his head as he, too, exchanged a glance with the same man. "Not this time," he replied.

"What do you mean? Mulder's earned his own--he might not be the official "Bureau mascot" or "Golden Boy", but he gets the job done same as I do. Who the hell's denying him from doing his?"

"I am," Mulder quietly responded. "AD Skinner asked me yesterday, and I still respectfully but gratefully say thanks but no thanks, sir," he transferred his eyes to Skinner's.

"Where's your sense of duty or justice? Responsibility to your country?" Doggett demanded.

"Unfortunately, those three values are greatly accosted to convenience of the powers that be. And anyone that still thinks that this organization still runs by JFK's philosophy is as blind as a bat."

Mulder's cynicism struck the other two like a runaway meteor, and for a few moments, they pondered his last statement in silence. Skinner was the first to break it by pulling out a tape recorder. "This is what was in Barnes' hand after Washington PD's sniper hit him. They thought it was the triggering device for a bomb-"

"Or so they say," Mulder muttered under his breath.

"Ahem. As none of us were present except for Scully for this, I'm going to take their word for it, Mulder. Doesn't her safety concern you?" Skinner went on without waiting for an answer. "Anyhow, we played the first side of the tape. It's a conversation with Special Agent Tom Colton and Barnes."

"That figures that he'd be the one. He'd sell his own mother to the Devil to make good on an offer he couldn't refuse." Skinner shot Mulder a look that told him that that would be his last interruption. Dogget's eyebrows wrinkled.

"Colton. Colton. The name sounds familiar...forgive me, I'm a little under the influence today. Uh...he was the one that almost screwed that liver eating guy's case up, right? I remember reading the file."

"Yeah, and he joined the OCS in '95. Now that Barnes is dead, Kersh let me open up the WPS database. The Bureau went after the Perelli family in '98, and Barnes went into hiding in '99. This car bombing that nearly killed him happened last year--specifically three months ago."

"The families here are a lot more patient than the ones in New York," Doggett remarked. "So he squealed on 'em, and Colton opened up his big yap, huh? Where's he now?"

"We took a team to his house last night, and right now he's sitting in a cell in nothing more than his pajamas. Last I saw of him, he was on the phone arguing with his lawyer. Anyway, uh, the other side of the tape is of Colton and some Perelli family associate. My guess is that Barnes came to confront Colton, but, uh...got distracted by his dominant personality, who had a different agenda in mind."

"And what do you think?" Doggett asked Mulder, who shrugged. "Off the record."

"I agree with the AD."

"So you're not gonna take a paranormal angle on this?"

"Who says it doesn't involve the paranormal? Craig Barnes was inhabited by the spirit of an officer of the Gestapo, specifically, of the counterintelligence unit, called the Sicherheitsdienst."

"You know, as crazy that first sounded to me, what's even nuttier is that I think I believe you. He was talkin' about gettin' those letters from you and all," Doggett bit his lip and pushed his 'feel good' button.

"Oh, Agent Reyes apologizes for not being here. She had to get back to New Orleans for a case," Skinner told him.

"Thanks." Mulder arose from his seat and walked around to join Skinner on the other side of the bed. "You two gonna be headin' off now?"

"I think you'll probably be needing some more rest," Skinner nodded. Both of them turned on their heels until Doggett called out.

"Wait, Mulder! I asked you something just before this entire damn ordeal, and I'd like an answer."

"You need a ride back to your apartment, Mulder?"

"I drove, thanks."

"See you soon, Agent Doggett," Skinner saluted the former Marine with his head and patted Mulder on the shoulder.

"What's up, Doggett?"

"I asked you if you'd wanna consult with us--you know, Scully and me. The X-Files office. Remember, I said I'd pay you for your services--if Kersh denies me, I'll even pay for you out of my own pocket." Doggett reached for his water from his tray, and Mulder handed it to him.

"Thank you, Doggett, but, no, I won't take your money. My mother left me quite a bit to spend, and if I get bored, I might go into doing some lectures."

"The morphine's working pretty good, Mulder. I'm sorry, I'm just not getting you today..."

"Sure, I'll do it. But outside the FBI--no phone calls from your office, no emails, no letters, no visits inside the office...despite what you think, you _are_ being surveilled. And no matter how many times you sweep the office for bugs, they always keep coming back like unwanted relatives."

"You gotta want _somethin_'...nothing's for free."

"You're right, I do." He hesitated and smiled. "A home cooked meal would be nice."

"Ah...Mulder...I can't cook worth shit. Sorry--how 'bout a gift certificate to a restaurant?"

"Well, there is another agent in your division that makes a killer filet mignon, or so I've heard from her mother," Mulder offered.

Doggett's mouth twitched, and he chortled. "She's the head of the department, Mulder. I guess it'd have to be her call."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Scully's Apartment, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

January 11th, 2001, 6:49 p.m.

A box of X-Files sat on top of the dining room table across from the two place settings and two unlit candles. "Fields of Gold" played gently on her stereo. But the commotion between Mulder and Scully in the kitchen was anything but romantic. "How's this, Scully?" He waived the French knife in the air, and she made her way over to the cutting board.

"Good job on the chives, Mulder. Now start on the mushrooms." Scully handed him the package, and he groaned.

"How much more stuff is there to chop up?"

"Not too much. You're lucky you didn't ask for spaghetti. We'd be here until my birthday."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'd like to start the steaks sometime soon, Mulder. The potatoes are just about ready to be skinned and mashed, too."

"You know, this wasn't part of the deal."

"Well, you didn't make your deal with me--you made it with Doggett, and then showed up at five o'clock with your frozen steaks. Not that I mind cooking for you, Mulder, but it'd be nice to know about it in the future."

"You're right. I guess now that I've left the FBI, I assume no one else's got anything to do, but it's just me."

"Getting bored?" he shrugged, which made her smile. "You'll be happy to know that there's something for you to do sitting on the table _after_ we eat." Mulder looked up from his chore, saw the box, and grinned like an eight year old who'd just received his Red Ryder BB gun. "Which will hopefully be before Christ's second coming," she mumbled.

His grin faded as he realized that only half of the mushrooms were done. "How do you do it like those chefs do on TV? You know, the fast chopping...as if their hands were on fire?"

"Practice. I don't think I could do it nearly as fast as one of those Iron Chefs, but move over and gimme the knife." He handed the instrument over and stepped backwards to give her complete command of the cutting board. Within thirty seconds, the rest of the fungi were done and ready to be thrown into the skillet with the rest of the ingredients.

"Scully, I'm impressed and very afraid at the same time," Mulder whispered into her ear as she scooped up the mushrooms into a bowl. Her sharp intake of oxygen made him inch closer into her personal space. "I thought teaching you batting was good, but this...this, I kind of like even better."

"Mulder..."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much. So, what else is in my cooking lesson today?" He was now directly behind her and sneaked his hands over hers to grab the bowl.

"Well, there's tasting..." Mulder took the bowl from her and pushed it away. Scully knew exactly what he had in mind, and he was _not_ about to get it...just yet. She reached up to blindly stroke the fine hairs on his chin and then playfully shoved him backwards.

"What was that for?" She pointed to the boiling pot of potatoes on the stove. "Oh. Aye, aye, Admiral Scully."

Mulder moved to the range, turned the burner off, and emptied the pot of its contents into a colander in the sink. "Run some cold water over them, and don't burn your wittle hands," she patronized him.

"Here I thought it was my brain that you were solely after, Agent Scully."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'm a doctor. I'm into all the parts of the anatomy." He gulped as he obeyed her suggestions and began to peel the spuds. "So, I was speaking to Langly a few days ago...and by the way, you owe him, Mulder. He saved your ass from becoming grass."

"I'll let him beat me the next time I go over for D & D," he chuffed.

"Yeah, and from what I hear, that's been going on a lot. Anyhow, he said that there's this bet going on-"

"Ouch!" The former FBI agent dropped the scalding hot potato onto the floor and quickly bent over to pick it up.

"It's not working, Mulder--you have to be bleeding for it to be a complete distraction," Scully quipped. "What is this I hear about you and the Gunmen raising stakes up about the birth of my child?"

"Just...if it was going to be a boy or a girl, that's all. I said it was going to be a girl."

"Uh-huh. And what was the bet?"

"If I win, they pay for a weekend of spa treatments, a five star hotel for us, and tickets to the next Knicks vs. Nets' game."

"Us?"

"Yeah." He was being a bit presumptuous, but their relationship had grown even closer since he had been returned from his abduction. And now, they weren't technically working together anymore.

"Okay, let's hear the other half."

"Other half?"

"If _they_ win," Scully pressed, crossed over to her refrigerator, and opened it. He slowly exhaled through his mouth, and she prepared herself for the worst.

"Frohike gets my entire porn collection."

"I see." As she turned around to hand him the milk, he had followed her and her shriek never faltered him from his task. Thankfully, he caught the container from falling, and put it onto the counter beside the refrigerator.

"Stop keeping me in suspense, Scully. I've got to know."

"Sorry, Mulder. I'm not going to go find out. But," she said with a 'cat that ate the canary' beam, "I have a feeling you just might lose your collection."

"And why does that make you happy?"

"I think it's time you stopped living the fantasy."

THE END


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